


Wall Verse

by Gamebird



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Episode: s04e18 The Wall, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 53,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamebird/pseuds/Gamebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dream world of The Wall, Peter and Sylar try to work out how to love each other despite everything between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Drabbles

_Oh God, I hurt._  Sylar sank down in his chair, letting a slight groan escape his lips. _I should have never let him talk me into working out. Ow._ Peter had insisted on a 'balancing' workout, which meant Sylar hurt all over.

Sylar looked up when Peter's hand came down on his shoulder. The empath met his questioning gaze briefly, then stepped behind him. He began to rub, gently at first, then more firmly.

 _Oh? He's … oh!_  The massage, and the contact, felt wonderful, but what Sylar was having trouble processing was why Peter would do it at all.

* * *

"Wait!" Peter got out as Sylar's hand gripped his shoulder, wrenching Peter up so he'd be in better range for Sylar to hit him.

Sylar glared at him, still a little befuddled from head-butting the empath, even if Peter had taken the worst of it. He cocked his fist.

Peter's own fist, that he'd clenched defensively, flexed open. He held it up, empty. "My bad, okay?"

Sylar snorted. The little turd deserved more than he'd gotten so far. Peter panted up at him, blood running down his upper lip and dripping onto the floor.

"Fuck," Sylar muttered and released him.

* * *

"Pete!" Sylar had intended that sarcastic and taunting. If he was going to lose the fight, he might as well piss Peter off as much as possible. But it came out … strained and almost a plea.

The body blows stopped immediately. Peter stared at him.

This was the moment when Sylar should counter-attack. He let it pass. Sylar had never asked for quarter in his life, but Nathan had, many times, and it had been granted, many times. Sylar shoved Peter away and it was allowed – the fight was over. Sylar marveled at this new trick he'd learned: mercy.

* * *

Peter scanned the titles on Sylar's bookshelves. Sylar himself was sitting on the couch, pretending to read, watching. Peter walked past fiction, historical, science and crime; paleontology, astronomy and guidebooks to the natural world; and paused before psychology including The Art of War, The Prince, and How to Win Friends and Influence People.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Sylar drawled sarcastically, "I don't have a comic book section. But at least it will be easy to find something new."

Peter gestured at the books he stood near. "I've read all of these." To Sylar's stunned silence, Peter said, "I'm a Petrelli, remember?"


	2. Vicious Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part is Peter's point of view; second part is Sylar's.

Peter looked over at Sylar grimacing and fiddling with the cap to the ointment. He felt guilty and he wanted to make himself useful. "Hey, let me help you."

Sylar gave him a disgruntled look and opened his mouth.

Peter interrupted before Sylar could say something snarky and kill Peter's desire to help, "It's the least I can do." The fight had been a bit unwarranted, really. Peter knew he'd overreacted. He should have had a better grip on his temper, even if it seemed like Sylar intentionally tried to piss him off sometimes.

Sylar shut his mouth, exhaled sharply and nodded. Peter went to one knee in front of him, opening an alcohol wipe that he'd been intending to use on his own bruised and lacerated knuckles. Once open, he dropped the wrapper and put his left hand on Sylar's knee to steady himself, noting the man's glance down at that. It was no different than how Peter would treat any of his patients: being kind, comfortable and familiar with them. Sylar's glance reminded him instantly of how that wasn't how it usually was between them.

The man's eyes rose to Peter's in unvoiced question. Peter tried very hard to ignore that query, instead focusing on the feel of Sylar's knee beneath his hand: warm and firm; reassuringly human. "This is going to sting," he said, reaching up to the cut over Sylar's brow. He wiped and cleaned carefully, taking pleasure in touching and helping someone else, even if it was Sylar. The other man set his hand on his right thigh, the very tip of one finger touching Peter's. It was an odd touch, but Sylar seemed to look for excuses to touch him. Peter had noticed. He was ambivalent about whether he minded. He glanced down, lifting his left hand away slowly enough to be casual and saying, "Ointment?"

Sylar gave a slightly disappointed sniff and handed it to him. Peter took it in his left, unscrewed the cap with his right, smeared it on some gauze and set his left hand back down on Sylar's knee – not quite touching his hand. With his right he applied the cream to the cut. He let his eyes drop from the injury to Sylar's eyes, holding that gaze for a long moment. He had beautiful eyes. They were alert, intelligent and incredibly observant. At the moment, the full smoldering intensity of them was burning into Peter's, with a latent desire not nearly so well hidden as it usually was. Peter's right hand dropped slowly, his fingertips grazing Sylar's cheek in what might be characterized as a caress. Sylar inhaled and tensed, eyes widening.

 _That … was completely inappropriate of me_. Peter gave a brief, nervous smile before he pulled his hands away and leaned back. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down to watch himself cap the tube of ointment. He was embarrassed and even more because he was thrilling to the touch and the reaction. Inappropriate – yes, but certainly welcome.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Sylar said, his voice deeper than usual, almost a purr. God, the things Sylar could do with his voice … and the things it did to Peter. The empath could feel the man's eyes boring into him. It felt great, like he was in a spotlight. He felt warmth suffusing every part of himself.

 _I can't do this. It's wrong_ _. He's not a patient, or even just some guy. He's_ _ **Sylar**_ _._  "I shouldn't have hit you," Peter said quietly, redirecting what they were talking about.

"Right.  _That_ ," Sylar said, leaning back in his seat with a huff. Peter winced both at how let down the man was and how let down Peter himself was.

Peter glanced up to see that Sylar was studying a corner of the ceiling, looking as dissatisfied as Peter had expected. It left him feeling even more guilty than he'd started. The medic collected up the discarded wrapper and went to get another alcohol wipe for his knuckles. The whole thing was his fault. If he just refused to let Sylar get to him, then none of this would happen. He just needed better control.

* * *

Sylar was still pissed about the fight. It had been completely uncalled for. He'd been teasing, for God's sake! Peter was so overly sensitive about certain subjects. Sylar resented having to keep a mental list of what he wasn't allowed to speak of. Of course, he'd known that particular subject was on the list when he'd made fun of it and Peter's reaction to it was hardly a surprise. He fidgeted roughly with the cap of the ointment, wishing there was a way for him to vent his frustrations on it without making a ridiculous mess.

"Hey, let me help you," Peter said.

Sylar's head jerked up and he opened his mouth to say something biting about Peter's 'help' but … His mind jumped to the last time they'd hurt each other and Peter running his fingers through Sylar's hair to feel the knot on his head, leaning close to him and checking his hurts. And then to Peter letting him touch him up later when Sylar helped apply the brace to his hand. The care was an excuse to touch in some way that didn't hurt automatically.

"It's the least I can do," Peter added, looking apologetic.

 _Does he get off on this?_  Sylar's mouth shut with a snap. Even if Peter didn't … well, Sylar sure wasn't going to pass up the opportunity. He nodded.

Peter knelt in front of him and immediately put a hand unnecessarily on Sylar's knee, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Sylar gave him a questioning look, but Peter ignored it, instead telling him, "This is going to sting," equally unnecessarily as he raised an alcohol wipe to the cut over Sylar's eye. Peter was avoiding eye contact, so Sylar glanced down surreptitiously at the hand on his leg and put his own next to it, touching slightly, testing the waters while preserving plausible deniability for both of them.  _Is this how you want to play this, Pete?_  he wondered.

Peter did not pull away instantly. He looked down and lifted his hand away deliberately, asking for the ointment.

 _Oh_ _ **yeah**_ _,_  Sylar thought, with everything he'd suspected confirmed by Peter's false casualness.  _We're playing. This is a game. Oh my. You_ _ **do**_ _get off on this. Or at least you're not above using it to flirt. And that's what you're doing – you're_ _ **flirting**_ _, but you won't admit it. You are_ _ **weird**_ _, Petrelli._

Peter finished applying ointment and finally made eye contact. He held it for a moment and this close, Sylar could see the empath's pupils dilate.  _Bingo_ , Sylar thought, staring into Peter's eyes like he was going to fall into them. Peter's hand dropped, his fingertips skimming across Sylar's cheek. It was so definitive, so clearly not part of medical duties, that Sylar stiffened and sucked in air, his own eyes widening.  _Oh, yeah, that's it!_  Sylar leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a tiny bit.

But then Peter remembered himself. He pulled back abruptly, tilted his head down and withdrew his touch and his attention completely. "Sorry," he muttered, drawing in on himself guiltily.

 _Oh my God, no, NO! Come back here, dammit!_  "Nothing to be sorry for," Sylar breathed, staring at Peter and trying with sheer force of will to make the man continue what he'd started. Peter blushed, so he obviously knew what was going on here.

"I shouldn't have hit you," Peter said, trying to pretend he was apologizing for hitting him, which Sylar could suddenly not care less about. He'd let Peter hit him all the time if it meant he got something like this out of it.

 _ **Shit**_ _ **!**_ _I almost had him. That almost went somewhere!_  "Right.  _That_ ," he said with a profound sense of disappointment. Sylar felt like railing at the heavens at the injustice of it all, of being trapped here with someone who was too stuck on his morals to act even though he was  _clearly_  attracted. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the ceiling, caught between being angry and depressed. Peter went off to see to his knuckles. Sylar glared balefully after him, thinking. Peter's reaction to Sylar's teasing had been predictable. So too, perhaps, was the reaction to tending to him. Sylar could use that. The next provocation  _would_  be intentional.


	3. Virtuous Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like last time - one point of view, then the other.

Sylar waited, poised, stalking his prey as always. This time was a little different though, as he was sitting at a piano bench to do it and no one's life was in danger. Interestingly, that did not diminish the thrill of the hunt.

"This," Peter said, showing Sylar the chord. He reached over with his right hand, keeping a couple inches between them, "then this," he said as he demonstrated the sequence of notes, "and this." Sylar moved immediately, having timed it just right. He slipped his right hand over Peter's, bagging his prize - a fleeting moment of near-intimate touch. The back of Peter's hand was warm and human and delicious to feel, so different from anything else in this world. It was to the sensation of touch what a beautiful sunset was to the eyes. Yet this was only a glimpse. It was all he was allowed.

Peter hesitated and Sylar knew he'd been noticed - of course he'd expected the touch itself to be noticed. Peter wasn't insensate and he seemed as hyper-aware of Sylar's proximity as Sylar was to Peter's. Even now he could sense every breath the man took, but that was because Peter was right next to him. Perhaps though Peter would just think it had been accidental. The empath withdrew his hand deliberately as Sylar began talking to distract from the contact. "Right, right. Like this then?"

Sylar depressed the chord, then followed it up with the other notes as demonstrated, but honestly he hadn't been paying the closest attention to which keys Peter had been hitting. He was sure he was missing one.  _Fuck!_  He didn't want to try Peter's patience, especially _now_. This was their first time to try to play together - Peter on the guitar and Sylar on the piano. He cursed himself. He should have waited, giving up this early opportunity for more chances later. He didn't want Peter discouraged because he was touchy or difficult to teach.

"Here, that's not quite right," Peter said and to Sylar's relief, his tone evinced no displeasure. He reached across for Sylar's right hand with his own and to the watchmaker's surprise, slipped his hand smoothly over Sylar's, showing not the least reticence about touching him. He did it so casually that it took a second to register the surprise, and then breath-holding wonder as Peter's fingers moved over his own, hitting the proper keys. "Right here, and here." Not only was he touching Sylar's hand, but he leaned into him a little with the latter instruction, letting his forearm brush the seated man's chest, a shoulder rubbing against his.

Sylar's mouth was dry and his eyes wide as Peter drew back and with a matching lack of affectation, brought his hand down on Sylar's shoulder. He gave a brief squeeze. "Try it again now." He took his hand away then and walked over to pick up the guitar.

Sylar blinked a few times.  _Yes, the music_. He debated screwing it up again just to see if he could get another 'lesson', but prudence overrode the desire for instant gratification. One thing was for sure, he was entirely dedicated now to making sure Peter wanted to do this again.

* * *

Peter waited, relaxed, eager to help as always. This time was a little different though, as he was merely going to reiterate a basic sequence to Sylar and then perhaps they would play together. It was a small thing, but he looked forward to it anyway. Maybe it would stem the constant fights Sylar seemed intent on picking with him.

"This," he said, showing Sylar the chord. He leaned forward a little and reached past the other man. "Then this," he said as he struck the keys in order, "and this." Sylar's hand moved quickly to cover his own, soft skin and long fingers giving him a brief caress as Peter blinked and froze for a second. It was lovely … and quite intentional. He was perfectly aware of that, even as Sylar began speaking nervously, trying to cover up what he'd done. "Right, right. Like this then?"

Then as if with the purpose of showing just how little attention he'd been paying when Peter had shown him the notes, Sylar proceeded to butcher them. He was a very smart man - Peter would even go so far as to say brilliant - so if he'd been paying the least attention to the music, he would have been able to replicate such a short pattern. That he couldn't confirmed for Peter that Sylar's mind had been firmly elsewhere.

It was … well, Peter wouldn't deny that he adored the ego boost. It made him feel warm and special and well-regarded, watched, approved of and  _wanted_. Sylar was so dismissive of him much of the time, acting superior and above him; deliberately antagonistic until Sylar was hurt, when he'd become meek and solicitous. The idea the man was falling all over himself for a chance to pet Peter's hand - Peter barely suppressed his grin. A lot of things were starting to make sense to him.

"Here, that's not quite right," he said as he gave Sylar a lot more than the shy taste he was stealing, like a furtive child taking a single finger-swipe of icing from a cake when he thinks no one is looking. Peter gave him a full piece. He leaned into him, rested his hand on Sylar's and showed him the keys again, though he doubted the lesson would stick any better. He didn't care, either. He was too busy reveling at the feel of a warm and firm shoulder against his own and the faint aroma of another person. "Right here, and here," he said, trying to stay focused enough that he didn't give himself away. Sylar wasn't even breathing at this point. Peter straightened and put his hand on Sylar's shoulder just like he was a bosom buddy and gave him a squeeze. "Try it again now."

When Sylar still didn't react for a second, Peter walked away to his guitar, leaving the other man to plink at the keys just as badly as before. One thing was for sure, bad or not, Peter  _definitely_  wanted to do this again.


	4. Camping

Sylar had been talked into going camping by Peter. It was silly. It was stupid. It was pointless. It was all that and more, but Peter had insisted he wanted to see what else was out there. For all his personal adventures, Sylar was quite the homebody. He'd finally crumpled when Peter had said fine, he'd just go without him then. And so they'd marched off into the uncertain landscape that Peter was sure was just Sylar's imagination, with perhaps some of his own mixed in, and that Sylar sometimes feared Peter was right. He didn't know, but he wasn't about to let the empath  _get away_ now that they'd finally loosened up with each other.

He woke - Sylar woke - the next morning stiff and sore with an awareness of all his blisters and aches, but he felt something else too, something like Hope at the bottom of Pandora's Box. It was the thing that had ended his slumber and realizing what it was, he kept his eyes shut and tried to deepen his breathing back to somnolent levels. He wanted to fool Peter; he  _needed_  to fool Peter. Because Peter had woke first and was slowly stroking the outside of Sylar's forearm. That marvelous, surreptitious touch stopped only a few moments later, but it confirmed all sorts of things about the empath - hints and mixed signals, now all clarified.

Sylar continued to feign sleep even though he badly wanted to open his eyes and look. He heard Peter shift and stand, leaving the tent they'd set up. The day before, Sylar had not been able to manage an objection to this gesture at authenticity in camping, even though they had their choice of abandoned abodes to choose from. After all, it put him sleeping in the same "room" with Peter. Apparently Peter had not been unmoved by that consideration either. It might even have been his plan all along, the manipulative little brat. New territory, indeed.

* * *

Peter had managed to talk Sylar into going camping with him. It was silly. It was immature. It was fun. He wanted to get out and away from the routine they'd settled into. For a much as he valued being reliable, steady, and there for people, he was a rebel at heart. He'd finally been forced to threaten to go alone - that had cracked Sylar loose from his moorings. And so they'd marched off on an adventure together, seeing new corners of this world of Sylar's imagining. In a way it was like a tour of the inside of his brain. Peter was thrilled. Maybe he'd see a side of his companion other than the stoic smart-ass he liked to front with.

He - Peter - hardly slept. He kept thinking about the time he'd stayed up all night to watch Sylar-faux-Nathan passed out in drunken stupor on Peter's bed. The man's rest was less disturbed this time, but not by much. An entire night of watching the man struggle intermittently with his demons, completely vulnerable in slumber, moved Peter. As dawn greeted the world, the nightmares seemed to get worse. Peter knelt next to Sylar and stroked his arm slowly. Sylar stopped whimpering immediately and seemed to rouse, then lapse back into sleep.

Peter stopped, regarding his companion for some moments. He watched the slight motions of Sylar's eyes under his lids and the lack of relaxation around his lips. He was faking! Peter smiled. So Sylar knew he'd tried to comfort him. Peter rose and left the tent, stretching in the light of the new day. He wouldn't say it had been a  _bad_  night of sleep, exactly. He'd been confronted with Sylar's humanity for hour upon hour and perhaps that was just what Peter needed to truly wake him up. He heard the man stir out and Peter turned to greet him, a new-found warmth in his heart.


	5. Four More Drabbles

Sylar emerged from the tent, watching as Peter finished stretching that enticing body of his and turned to face him.

The empath asked, "So, what do you want to do for breakfast?"

Impulsively, Sylar blurted out, "You." The second the word left his mouth he regretted it, but there was no way to take it back. He waited for the inevitable shutdown.

But Peter only grinned, blushed and murmured, "Well, I was talking about what we might eat- um, food, you know?"

Sylar relaxed and stood taller, realizing Peter wasn't closing the door on that possibility - not at all.

* * *

Peter sank down gratefully on Sylar's couch. Two long days of constant activity with very little sleep in between had taxed even his reserves. Sylar was talking, but Peter was already drowsing. Maybe he could just take a little rest here before heading off to his own apartment.

Snippets of dreams flashed behind his eyes. In his dream, he was a boy again and his big brother settled on the couch next to him, slowly draping an arm over his shoulders. Peter turned his head to rest on Nathan's chest, feeling his warmth. He slept peacefully in that protective embrace.

* * *

Sylar's arm was killing him, but he'd sooner it fell off than move and risk waking his companion. Peter snuggled against him like, Sylar assumed, a lover might. Or a child wanting to be comforted. Being alone in this world had to be tough on an empath. Peter had lost all of his people and been thrown together with his brother's killer. It was cruel, in a way, that the only person he could take comfort from was Sylar. The watchmaker felt profoundly sorry for that. He wished, that for Peter's sake, he could be Nathan for a little while.

* * *

Peter woke gradually with his head on Sylar's thigh, drool dampening his cheek. He sat up woozily, but Sylar slept on even after his hand, which had been on Peter's shoulder, fell to his side. It was morning. Peter blinked, clearing his eyes. Sylar was still a killer, but suddenly he was so much more than that: he was human, frail and strong at the same time. He'd made mistakes, but so had Peter. Maybe they could forgive each other and be something other than enemies. Peter dared to pray it was possible.

He set about making breakfast for them.


	6. Shame Turns to Anger

Sylar needed to say something. He  _wanted_  to say something. He wanted to make this thing developing between them real and he could only do that by speaking it aloud.

He was scared – more than he'd ever been while driven on by his ability. He was nervous – mouth dry, palms sweating. He could barely choke down the really quite good omelet Peter had made them.

He blushed, he stammered, and at first Peter looked puzzled. That had stopped. Now he looked pleased. Sylar felt mortified.

"Something you need to say?" Peter asked slyly.

He couldn't speak. Shame turned to anger.

* * *

Peter had been angrier in his life, but at the moment he couldn't recall. He wanted nothing more than to go back and slug Sylar right in his jerk-faced kisser. Peter was limping and his face hurt, both from where he'd been slammed into the doorframe after stopping and trying to argue with his abruptly belligerent companion.

Things had been going so well – past tense.

 _Fine._  If that was how Sylar wanted to play it, Peter would just stay away from him. That would hurt Sylar a lot more than any punch he could throw.  _See how he likes that!_


	7. The Feel of Your Lips

"Why not?" Sylar asked, his voice torn between raw and angry. He'd never expected to get into this sort of conversation with Peter, even though he'd thought about the parts after often enough. He wasn't sure at all where he stood or how to pursue it. Somehow he needed to get past this if he ever wanted a chance to getting to those parts.

"Because of exactly what you  _said_ ," Peter growled, throwing Sylar's own words back at him. "You're just lonely. It's just an outlet. I don't want to be … an ' _outlet_ ' for someone!"

Sylar chewed at his lip, dipping his head but still glaring up at Peter from under his brows.  _Okay, poor choice of words. Fair enough._  He'd thought that casting it as inconsequential would make it easier for Peter to … to do it. Apparently not. Sylar still had a lot to learn about what worked with Peter and what didn't. He wished, not for the first time, that Nathan had paid more attention to Peter's love life. Instead, the man had pointedly ignored it, which left Sylar floundering. "Then … what do you want?" He felt like that old joke of asking what women wanted - though really the question had nothing to do with women and everything to do with trying to figure out how to satisfy someone when people, male or female, were essentially unsatisfiable.

"I want …" Peter waved his hand vaguely and Sylar tilted his head. Sylar's own mind filled in ' _to be special_ ' without him even trying to guess Peter's words. Sylar blinked.  _Yes, that's it_. The rest of what Peter said confirmed it, even if he wasn't using those particular words. "I want it to matter. I don't want to be someone's last resort. I want someone to really feel …" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You're just lonely. I could be anyone. It doesn't matter."

Sylar's head tilted a little further, because what he was interpreting out of that was Peter's fear that  _he_  didn't matter and Sylar had never empathized so strongly with the younger Petrelli as he did at that moment. Maybe that was what prompted his action, because if he'd been thinking rationally, he'd have never had the courage to do what he did next – something that flowed simply and directly from his feelings, without pausing to consult his thoughts. Sylar stood and walked closer to Peter in a steady, unhurried pace, stopping directly in front of him.

Peter had not backed off or even questioned, though he looked up at Sylar now a little sullenly. Sylar raised his left hand deliberately and slipped it behind Peter's head, feathering through his hair. Peter's eyes narrowed a little, but the important part was that he made no objection. At the realization that he was touching Peter intimately and ( _oh my God!_ ) not being rejected out of hand, Sylar felt a surge of nerves.  _Please don't hit me in the face. Please don't hit me at all._  He cradled the back of Peter's skull and applied a slight pressure with his fingertips, urging but not requiring Peter to turn his head.

 **Peter did it**. Sylar felt another jolt at the cooperation.  _This might be going somewhere!_  His heart started beating faster and he had to make an effort to keep breathing normally. Before he chickened out completely, he leaned forward tentatively, awkwardly, and touched his lips to Peter's just briefly. He couldn't stop the small moan that slipped from his throat at the sensation. He opened his eyes, not even aware of when he'd shut them ( _thank God Peter didn't slug me for that – I'd have not even seen it coming_ ). Peter was studying him intently, lids a little drooped, pupils dilated.

 _Oh my God. Maybe … maybe he wants this? Maybe that's what I need to do is just do it and stop asking him if he'll let me? He_ _ **has**_ _to want it. If he didn't he wouldn't be doing this_. Sylar kissed him again, a chaste, careful pressing together of their lips. Peter's hands rose to rest on Sylar's hips, making Sylar suck in a breath a little faster – not quite a gasp.  _Stop that. All he's doing is touching you_ , was a thought followed immediately by,  _oh my God he's touching me. On purpose. Him. Touching_ _ **me**_ _._  Sylar shifted his weight in agitation, his body trying to find the exact right position to be in. Everything in him was alive and awake suddenly, his groin as well. Hopefully Peter would be too busy with his face to notice that.

Peter's fingers traveled up his waist slowly, snagging at his shirt and then slipping higher, leaving a trail of fire behind them. Goosebumps broke out across Sylar's flesh and there was no way he could 'breathe normally' anymore. He shifted again, weight going back and forth between feet as he opened his mouth a little and moved it against Peter's, which welcomed and matched him, taking it just as slow. Sylar moaned again, not trying to stop it this time.

Peter pulled back a few seconds later and Sylar so, so wanted to throw him down and ravish him right here, right now. His breath caught in his throat and he gulped heavily. "I like that," Peter murmured, putting his hands flat on Sylar's chest. Sylar glanced down and leaned against those hands aggressively, which … was the wrong thing to do. Peter's expression shifted – just a slight shift, a small thing, a tiny flicker of difference – but Sylar knew he'd just made a mistake. He froze. Peter pushed him back a step and then backed up himself, getting some distance between them.

The Italian gave him a smile that wasn't unwelcoming, wiping his mouth and looking down. But at the same time, he took a few more steps away, while Sylar kicked himself inside, trying to decide if he needed to pursue or just stand here, hands hanging at his sides, feeling too big, clumsy, and wrong.  _Too much? Was I doing too much? I thought he wanted me to do it? Should we talk about it then? Was I supposed to be talking?_  The urge to be angry about this rose up, to blame Peter and maybe even lash out. Sylar's eyes narrowed and he dipped his head. The expression on Peter's face was still pleased. Not smug or condescending, Sylar noted and raised his chin a little, trying to smooth his own expression before Peter caught sight of it again. No, Peter was happy about things. All was not lost.

He racked his brain trying to think of what to say, going over what Peter had said and what he thought he'd meant by it. Various lines that he'd heard worked to get girls in bed ran through his brain, as well as the ones Nathan used that really did work. None of them seemed appropriate.  _Honesty, maybe?_  "I  **am**  lonely." He swallowed and looked away, noting that he definitely had Peter's attention. "But you're not just anyone. You're  _Peter_." He left off the 'Petrelli'. He used that too often to mock the man and that probably wasn't a good thing to remind Peter of at the moment.

Peter gave Sylar a warm, lop-sided smile that made his gut clench. Oh yes, all was not lost at all.  _Patience. Be patient,_ was accompanied by,  _I don't want to be patient!_ Peter nodded and said, "Thank you. Listen, I'll …" Sylar recognized the tone – it was the 'I'm saying good-bye' tone.  _No, no, no!_  "I'll see you tomorrow."  _NO!_ "Thank you," the man repeated, backing away again, reaching up to touch his lips and looking touched, pleased, thrilled before turning away, still touching himself where they'd kissed. Sylar swallowed again and blinked, that gesture doing funny things to his midsection and silencing the voice inside of his head that had been telling him to do something, anything, to keep Peter from walking away.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Just let him go. He liked that. Don't ruin it. He even thanked you_ _. He really liked it. He'll let you do more tomorrow, but only if you let him go._


	8. Practice Makes Perfect

Peter walked out of his apartment building to an empty street. Just a few minutes earlier, he had looked down from the window at the end of the hall to see Sylar pacing outside, head down, chewing his thumbnail like he did when he was particularly stressed. Now he was gone. Peter frowned and peered up and down the street, but there was no sign of him.  _Where did he go? He wouldn't leave. He was waiting for_ _ **me**_ _._  That last made Peter feel very wanted. Just the day before they'd kissed for the first time. Peter didn't think either one of them had any plans for today other than continuing that exploration of one another … so where had Sylar run off to?

As he stood there fighting off disappointment, he heard the sound of the piano in the apartment building across the street. Many times Peter had played to settle his own emotions – usually when he was angry at Sylar, but also when he was missing Nathan or upset at the nature of the world or simply lonely and trying to call out to his companion. It was a passive aggressive way to say 'hey Sylar, I'm over here, but I'm not about to tell you I'd like your company.' He smiled in soft amusement. So Sylar was pulling Peter's tricks on him in turn.

He walked inside, hearing Sylar miss a note when the lobby door shut loudly behind him and announced his presence. That made Peter smile more. The man continuing playing, which was pleasing. It was a song Peter had shown him only a few days before, one they'd worked on together a little. It was nice that he was practicing and nicer still that he didn't quit as soon as he knew the sound had lured Peter in.

Peter walked into the room and over to lean on the corner of the upright piano, facing forward into the big room. The back of the piano was against the wall, so he and Sylar were roughly facing one another now. Peter listened to the melody with a more neutral expression, drawn by his own personal pied piper. He stared off into the middle distance for while, just enjoying the sound, but then let his eyes shift to the side without moving his head. He wanted to enjoy the scenery in addition to the music, and with the kissing of the day before, Peter suspected he could risk getting caught ogling with a lot less repercussion than normal.

Sylar was really an outstandingly handsome man. More than once, Peter had reflected that this was certainly Sylar's hell and not Peter's. It wasn't Peter's idea of heaven by any means, but his hell would not include devastatingly handsome men who wanted to get into his pants. Of course it wasn't that simple (or else this might really be Peter's version of heaven). He'd turned Sylar down pretty flatly the day before, but when the man had walked up to Peter with such an expression of understanding and kindness, Peter had stood his ground and allowed things to go … where they did. He was so glad he had, because Sylar had shown him a completely different side of himself, one he usually kept so carefully hidden.

Peter gazed at those lips that Sylar had pressed to him so softly and hesitantly, like a blushing virgin, shy and diffident. He was a  _serial killer!_  And yet here was a totally different person underneath all the sarcasm and braggadocio; a person who was tender and careful and yearning - so vulnerable and sweet. It made Peter's heart ache. He wanted to pull Sylar to him and show him everything.

Peter had said no to Sylar's advance the day before, because he didn't want to be used meaninglessly. Peter was far from being bored enough by being here that he'd fuck Sylar because the man had an itch, and that was pretty much how Sylar had offered it at first. Then when he'd walked over, Peter had figured out that no, those were just words, another layer of obfuscation and defense hiding Sylar's real feelings. Peter wanted someone to be into him. He wanted them to want  _him_ , not just what he could do for them. He hadn't realized before how much Sylar did want him. Him -  _Peter_ \- his responses, his thoughts, his actions, his engagement and feeling and everything Peter was willing to give him. Sylar didn't want to just touch him and get off. He wanted to connect with Peter and that was what he was trying to do, albeit a bit clumsily at times.

It came to Peter then that this was why this was Sylar's hell - all alone, no one to connect with. Sylar had said that several times, variations of those words, but Peter hadn't understood until this moment. He'd been thinking that yeah, the loneliness must be rough, but he couldn't see why that in particular would upset Sylar, the killer. All of Sylar's demeanor indicated such a disdain for people that Peter had been perplexed as to why _this_  had manifested as the worst torture Matt could inflict on him. Now that he saw the person Sylar was inside, Peter understood.

That person had noticed Peter staring at his lips, as Peter had become open about it during his contemplations, watching those lovely, plush edges to his mouth, slightly pursed with concentration as Sylar coaxed music from the piano. He was leaned over the instrument, intent on making music for Peter to hear. The music was Peter's project - he was doing this  _for him_. Peter watched the man's lips raptly, thinking about those two kisses they'd shared, full of barely restrained intensity. Oh yes, he wanted more of that. Peter realized Sylar had finally noticed he was being checked out. Peter's eyes darted up to his. Sylar blushed a little and looked down at the piano keys, stroking them nervously.

Peter sighed happily and leaned more on the piano, appreciating what he saw. Lips - lips were one of Peter's big turn-ons - those and eyes. Outside of mirrors, there was only one set of each in the whole world right now and they were lovely ones to look upon. He'd never taken the opportunity to look at them this intently before, always concerned about offending, or starting something he didn't want to finish. (He wouldn't mind finishing something today … he'd have to see where things went.) Sylar's lips were full and symmetrical and Peter knew they were sensitive all the way across rather than having his own numb patch on one side. He thought about what that must feel like, to kiss someone and feel their mouth fully against your own, rather than just three-quarters with nothing but a faint pressure on the last part to tell you were touching.

Sylar squirmed now at Peter's continued and obviously interested scrutiny. The man scooted to the end of the bench closest to Peter and stood, taking a small, unnecessary step in the action that crowded close to Peter. Sylar did that kind of thing a lot, testing the boundaries, finding out how close he could get before a glance from Peter or a tensing or a turned shoulder warded him off. Sometimes not even that worked and he'd provoke a fight - yes, Peter had figured out the reason for the violence. Sylar played all of these games, trying to figure out how to win what really mattered - attention, response, an emotional connection. The only game Peter was interested in playing today was win-win.

Peter smirked up at Sylar, who was looming over him as if trying to be intimidating with his height. The man's expression went from superior to uncertain at Peter's self-assured one. Peter hooked his hand behind the man's neck and pulled him down abruptly into a hard press of lips, bypassing the game and heading straight for the goal posts. Sylar tensed and made a small, surprised noise. Peter held his mouth against Sylar's, feeling those lips with his own, holding the man's face to his until Sylar's brain caught up with his body and he relaxed into it, the panicked lines around his eyes smoothing.

Peter moved his lips against Sylar's, feeling them warm and soft, getting softer as Sylar began to move his mouth in response. He made another small sound - this time more a moan. Peter pulled on the man's neck and stepped backwards, putting his shoulder blades against the wall a few feet from the piano and leaning back, inviting Sylar to trap him there and have him.

Sylar glanced between Peter and the wall, putting his hand on it palm down. His other hand he wrapped around Peter and then turned them both to the side, putting himself in the corner made by the boxy shape of the piano and the wall it was against, with Peter on the outside. Sylar was even more hemmed in now than Peter had been offering for himself. The taller man slouched so as to overcome their height difference and make himself more accessible. He put his elbow on the top of the piano and looked hopeful that Peter would accept the new arrangement. Sylar smiled a little and put his free hand out to the side, palm towards Peter as if in invitation for him to get as close as they'd been before.

Peter accepted it. He leaned in, forward over Sylar's body and gave him a small peck on the lips in approval. He put his hands on Sylar's waist and ran them up his sides, not missing how Sylar breathed faster and even made a shallow nod to him. Sylar licked his lips and reached out to touch Peter's shoulder - so tentative, eyes darting to Peter's face as if asking if he was allowed to touch.

"I like that," Peter murmured, letting his own hands stroke up over Sylar's chest, feeling the pectoral muscles flat beneath his palms. His hands traveled up Sylar's neck, provoking Sylar to straighten a little, swallow and make a quick intake of breath.  _Oh my God, he is so responsive_. Peter leaned in and offered a kiss, which Sylar tilted his head immediately and accepted. Sylar's hand drifted from Peter's shoulder to the back of his neck, then up to cradle his head, pausing to position Peter just a little differently so it was better for him. Peter appreciated that Sylar wasn't completely without initiative here. He wasn't unwilling to act; he was just afraid of fucking things up.

Peter put a hand on the wall to hold himself up as he kept his lips against Sylar's, moving them gently and reveling in the feeling of Sylar's larger lips wrapping around his own. The kiss prolonged and gradually grew more in-depth. He settled his body against Sylar's, letting him support his weight as he leaned against him, trapping him into the corner and pushing him back a little. It freed Peter's hands so he could bring them both up on either side of the man's face. Sylar shut his eyes in bliss as Peter stroked his fresh-shaven cheeks and gave feather-light touches to his temples and brows before letting his fingers sink into the man's gelled hair. Clearly, Sylar had made an effort this morning to clean and scrub and shave so he was as presentable as possible … without going overboard. Peter groaned, kissing harder. He appreciated that someone wanted him enough to do that. Sylar's mouth opened before him and the other man let his head fall back, submissive to whatever Peter wanted to do with him.

What Peter wanted was taste. He let his tongue brush Sylar's lip, pulling a soft keening moan from the man. Peter bit his own lower lip at that, feeling himself harden. He loved the sound; he loved the responsiveness; he loved the submission and the preparation and the thought and the passion he could feel burning under Sylar's skin.  _Oh, this is good. This is so good. So fucking good._ It was stealing Peter's breath away, making him high with desire. He licked Sylar again as Sylar's eyes opened now and he watched Peter with heavy lids. Sylar ran his hand up through the back of Peter's hair, mussing it, while his other, the hand of the arm that was propped on the piano, touched Peter's shoulder and plucked restlessly at the cloth. He wanted to do more with that hand, but it was supporting his weight, and anyway, Sylar was still hesitant to express how much he wanted Peter.

Peter could feel it anyway. He pressed against the man, noticing he wasn't the only one hard. His own arousal was at full flame and every signal of want he was getting from Sylar only fanned him higher. He kissed Sylar with his mouth fully open for the first time. His tongue stroked along the inside of the upper and then lower lip, feeling the even edges of Sylar's teeth behind them, tasting his unique flavor. And then, there was a tiny answering touch as the very tip of Sylar's tongue teased Peter's. Peter stopped to grin happily, dipping his head to rest their foreheads together, his face flushed with joy. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, please. I like that. Do that. Please, Sylar."

Sylar straightened a little, confidence bolstered, and urged Peter's head back to where they could resume kissing. Peter complied with enthusiasm. Sylar's tongue brushed firmly against Peter's, making the empath moan in pleasure. Peter ground against him with a groan, but it was cut short as Sylar's face jerked back, his mouth snapped shut and he flattened himself against the wall, getting space between their groins and dropping his hand from the back of Peter's neck to the front of his shoulder, ready to push him away.

Peter froze, eyes wide, but not as wide as Sylar's. A moment later Sylar began to lick his lips nervously as his eyes darted around uncomfortably, clearly aware his reaction was … unusual and trying to figure out how to cover it. Peter waited until he saw anger beginning to form and then he took action. Peter had suffered at Sylar's hands several weeks before because the man had been trying, after their camping trip, to say something and Peter guessed he had smiled at the wrong moment. Sylar had become embarrassed and vented his emotion through rage instead. Peter had no interest in being hurt again.

Peter said quickly and softly, "It's okay, it's okay. Hey, hey? Okay?" Peter lifted his hands off the man and held them out to the sides, empty and inoffensive.

Sylar still glanced between the hands uneasily and looked down, upset and continuing to look angry, or maybe frustrated because his eyes kept jumping to Peter's like there was something he wanted, then away like he wasn't finding what he was looking for. Sylar swallowed and began to hold himself very still, finally looking away and to the side like he was shutting down or waiting for Peter to go away.

Thinking he'd give him some space, Peter backed up a half step. A pang of intense pain and disappointment shot across Sylar's face - his lips thinned, his brows drew together and down and his face scrunched inward. Giving him space wasn't the answer. Before that too could translate into anger, Peter put his hand on Sylar's arm on the piano. The arm twitched but Sylar didn't throw him off. Sylar wasn't going to get himself out of the emotional spot he was in, probably feeling penned in by his outburst and embarrassed. Peter had to lead him out and show him everything was still fine. He gestured down at Sylar's legs with his other hand. "Here, move your legs apart."

Now Sylar looked up at him, blinking and uncertain, but he was listening and Peter could see hope there in his face. It warred with suspicion and what looked like resentment. "Why?"

Peter softened his tone further and said, "Go on. It's okay. I'll show you." He looked up at Sylar as sincerely as he could and the expression seemed to work. The resentment faded on the other man's face and hope grew. Sylar did as he was asked. He took instruction well, which was something Peter didn't do, but he'd recognized it in Sylar. Peter said, "Now slouch down like you were before. Put your legs out here, on either side of me." Sylar's eyes widened again, but he seemed to be calming down. He followed directions and let Peter position him. "Now I'm going to lean on you just like I was doing before. I won't move against you. I'm just going to lie on you. Is that okay?"

Sylar blushed furiously. "Peter, I'm … um …" He made a gesture at the obvious bulge of his groin and Peter resisted staring at it as best he could. Staring would not make matters better, he suspected. He'd never run into someone so ashamed about a simple boner.

Peter smiled. "I know. And I'm really happy about that." Peter put one hand on the wall and leaned in, not touching any part of Sylar. Sylar glanced up and down Peter's body apprehensively as if not quite sure how to take that lack of contact. Peter turned his head and kissed him softly. To his joy, Sylar responded to it strongly. Peter had begun to wonder if the man really had become overwhelmed by it all and they were done for the day. "I'm  _really_  happy about that," Peter whispered. "Let me feel you?"  _Oh baby, please let me feel you. Let me feel you wanting me. I want some of that for myself._

Sylar looked away self-consciously and nodded. He glanced back at Peter with a nervous smile, his face flushing yet again.  _He is_ _ **so**_ _worked up about this. I love that. This really matters to him._  It ran all through Peter and tingled against his skin, making his own face warm and then hot. When he got close to someone, Peter's emotions echoed theirs and sometimes he even felt what they felt physically. It had been far stronger when he'd had his original power, but it was still there even now - it just took a more intense level of contact to activate it. He was really feeling it today.

Peter stepped further in between Sylar's legs and settled very slowly against him, hips first, then his stomach. Sylar wrapped an arm around him at that point, his face relaxing and his breathing deepening. He hugged Peter to him chest to chest and pressed his face against the side of Peter's head, breathing hotly into his hair. Peter wanted to fuck him so bad and he was absolutely sure Sylar felt the same way.

Peter could feel Sylar's stiff length between them. Surprisingly, the man had stayed hard throughout that tense moment. Peter had lost his erection for a while, but it was racing back to fullness. Peter drew back and kissed him lightly and Sylar, panting, gave him a faint whine for his actions. Peter's hands came up to caress Sylar's face as Sylar's hand, resting lightly between his shoulder blades, dropped down his spine. Sylar pulled back to study Peter's face as his hand came to the top of his jeans and paused there, fingers toying with a belt loop, tugging at it experimentally. Peter smiled and stroked his cheek, letting his fingers roam over to touch the man's nose and then up between his brows, tracing over one and then the other. Sylar's eyes rolled upwards and his head lolled back against the wall as he panted hard. He bit his lip, trying to quiet a wild surge of desire that Peter heard as clearly as if Sylar had shouted it.

Peter leaned in, raising himself up on his tiptoes and thereby shifting his whole body a couple inches against Sylar's. The man shuddered and whimpered at that. Peter put his lips over Sylar's and sucked his lower lip from between the man's teeth, worrying it with his own. He felt Sylar's whole body tighten and tense. There was a quiver deep inside the man, resonating in Peter's muscles as well, creating a harmony.

Peter licked and sucked and groaned, wanting so badly to grind against him, but even though he knew Sylar wanted it, he didn't know how he'd react. Sylar's hand at the small of his back pressed him in just a little and Peter took that as a signal. He lowered himself a bit, flexing his feet and no longer standing on tiptoes, then raised himself back up, rubbing his whole body against Sylar and getting another shudder and moan for his efforts. Sylar was being pulled tight like a bowstring, pressure seeking release. Peter wanted to grant that.

He grunted with a forceful exhalation, putting his mouth over Sylar's more aggressively, plunging his tongue inside as passion took him. The man was on the edge of orgasm - Peter could feel it and he had every intention of putting Sylar over and making him burst. It was working Peter up immensely, so much so that he could hardly think. His heart was pounding in his chest, in sync with Sylar's, both breathing hard. Nothing existed but Sylar and what he was feeling, and what he was feeling was  _ready_. Peter gave up the slow up and down motion and began to thrust against him.

And once more, Sylar freaked out. One second Peter was humping against him, drenched in desire and the next he was getting nothing but terror and panic and shame from his partner. Sylar yanked his hand from behind Peter and pushed him away, struggling upright. He jerked himself out of the corner between piano and wall and circled to get some space, which was easy enough because Peter was standing where Sylar had shoved him, hands up in surrender, still trying to recover from being rudely snatched from the cusp of orgasm and booted aside. Sylar touched his own forehead, then his chest, then his hand hovered uneasily over his taut groin. He bared his teeth in what looked like fear, not anger, and looked at the open doorway.

"Please don't leave," Peter begged. He didn't know what was going on with Sylar, but he didn't want it to end this way - not more fighting, or shame or embarrassment or weeks of not talking to each other or dancing around the subject again. He had felt what Sylar wanted and Peter wanted that too. He knew the man's feelings were genuine. There was so much between them and so much fucked up about the whole situation that Peter didn't blame Sylar in the least for being confused or overwhelmed.  _Maybe I'm just taking this too fast. Way too fast. Slow down … quit being selfish, Peter._

"What … I'm …" Sylar panted out, shaking his head. He gestured at the spot next to the piano, where they'd been cleaved together only a few moments before. "I can't."

 _Can't what?_  Peter tilted his head, raising his brows, but Sylar didn't see. He was touching his forehead again, looking lost and miserable now. Peter deepened his breathing and tried to relax.  _We need to stop. No third try right away. Just stop and let both of us calm down - all the way down._

Sylar shook his head again. "I should go."

"Please don't," Peter said, his tone making it a question and a plea.  _Don't run out on me - don't, don't, please don't. You won't be able to look me in the eye again until you've beat the crap out of me. I know you. I know how you are with that big ego of yours. Stay here, please. It's okay._

Teeth clenched in anger, Sylar shot back, "Why the hell not? I can't do this right! I'm fucking things up!"

Very calmly, Peter offered, "Why don't you sit at the piano and play, and I'll use the guitar?" Sylar looked at the piano like he was angry at it too, but his jaw eased and then he blinked at it a few times and dropped his gaze to the floor.

Peter dipped his head, taking a step toward the guitar and watching Sylar's face the whole time, trying to track his emotions. "Just like always," Peter soothed. "Everything's fine. Nothing's fucked up." Sylar looked up at Peter, his face calming and moving towards neutral. Peter smiled a little and shrugged, glancing off to the side and then back. "I'd like to be near you."  _I'd like to go back to what we were doing, but I don't think that's in the cards. I'll take second best. I like you. Come on. You've got to feel that - it's okay. Calm down._

Sylar swallowed noisily, breathing heavily as he began to relax and wind down. He opened his mouth to speak, but discarded the words. He nodded instead and forced a tense smile that didn't reach his narrowed, suspicious eyes. Peter nodded back anyway and went over to lift the guitar and dig out the pick. Sylar watched him for a long moment before going to the piano and accepting the new task. Gingerly, he sat down, wincing as he adjusted his jeans. He coughed and cleared his throat, saying, "What … what do you want me to play?"

"What you were playing when I came in was fine." Peter sat down and set the guitar across his knee. His own arousal had faded a lot faster once he wasn't touching Sylar. "We'll just take it from the top … and practice as much as we need to, to get it right." He smiled warmly at the other man, trying to smooth things over with an easy manner and acceptance.

Sylar stared back at him for a moment, clearly getting the double meaning of Peter's words. Sylar blinked a few times and looked at the white and black keys, blowing out air and trying to relax. "Practice?" he said with a tone of hope and disbelief.

"As much as we need to," Peter repeated. "I like practicing."  _I want to get to practice more with you._  He started picking out the first notes of the melody, taking it slow. Sylar joined him a few moments later.


	9. Break Time

Peter set the guitar down, stretching his fingers because they were sore. "Let's take a break, okay?"

"Sure," Sylar muttered distractedly, frowning at the sheet music in front of him. He'd learned to read it disturbingly fast. All Peter had had to do was go over the basics twice (and the second time was just to cover a few parts Sylar hadn't paid attention to the first time around) and after that the man  **had it**. A lot of the time, Peter felt inadequate next to that. Sylar sometimes accused Peter of having everything, but really from Peter's point of view the shoe was on the other foot - Sylar had better looks, more abilities, more freedom, no backstabbing family and a ton of brains.

 _Smart people_ , Peter thought in mock disgust, snorting softly to himself.  _They're kind of annoying sometimes._ Speaking of which, he walked over to the resident brainiac and looked over his shoulder. Sylar's fingers were twitching on the keys, but not actually depressing them as he was clearly working through the next section, fixing it in his mind. "Hey, Mozart," Peter teased, "are you going to take a break or not?"

Sylar pulled his eyes away with difficulty and looked up at Peter blankly for a moment,  _Huh?_  clearly writ on his features.

 _I'll bet you were a complete nerd in high school,_  Peter thought affectionately, grinning and reaching out slowly to touch the man's cheek.  _A very, very sexy nerd_. Sylar's expression shifted fast to hopeful as he realized what was being offered, and what Peter potentially meant by 'break.' Yes,  _that_ was much more important than the music and Peter was gratified to see himself quickly catapulted to the top of Sylar's priority list. The man swallowed, leaning to meet Peter's hand, letting Peter stroke his cheek and cup it.  _Oh, you are so precious. God! Why didn't I see this before?_  A brief collage of everything that had happened between them prior - blood, death and violence - flashed through Peter's mind before he squelched it.  _Okay, bad question. Never mind._

Peter flopped down on the bench next to him, facing the opposite direction. He leaned back against the piano, putting his elbows on the keys on either side, making a couple odd chords with the motion. He tilted his head forward, letting his bangs fall across half his face and gave Sylar his most killer smile, along with his undivided attention.

"Uhhh," was all Sylar said, gulping a little and staring at him. His eyes raked up and down Peter's body, so close now to his own, an unasked for and oh-so-wanted proximity. His fingers twitched and moved in abortive motions for a completely different reason now and he worked his mouth like it was dry suddenly.

 _Awesome!_  Peter thought, immensely flattered. Not that he was unaware of the effect he had on people from time to time, but it was always nice to know the Peter charm still worked. He rotated his left forearm, the one nearest Sylar, and dropped his fingers down to graze Sylar's thigh. Just in case, you know, Sylar hadn't gotten the memo that Peter was interested in him.

But oh, he'd gotten the memo. Sylar sat up straighter and breathed faster. Then he scooted against him. There had been only an inch between them but Sylar closed it, pressing his thigh to Peter's and sending his own correspondence back - oh yes, Peter was interested, Sylar was interested right back, and thrilled to boot. He chewed his upper lip for a moment and raised his left hand (since they were facing different directions it was the hand between them) and moved it vaguely like he didn't know what to do with it.

Peter reached out with his right, caught Sylar's hand and put it on his outer thigh, smoothing his hand over it for a moment to make sure it would stay there, before leaning back again. Self-assurance and confidence marked Peter's face. It helped that he had a pretty good feel for how into him Sylar was, or at least how into him Sylar had been earlier. Also, Peter's insecurity made him reckless and cavalier, even more determined to get what he wanted.

Sylar looked at his hand for a long moment, then at Peter. He seemed caught between apprehensive and joyful. Peer liked that look on him. Sylar observed, "You're … really forward."

"Too much?" Peter asked, with another tilt of his head. He was pretty sure it wasn't, what with the way Sylar had turned them before to put Peter on the outside, effectively trapping Sylar in the corner. Sylar was sending some pretty strong signals that he wanted Peter to set the pace and take charge.

"No, no," Sylar answered quickly. "Not too much."

"Good. When I decide I want something, I go after it. If you need me to back off, let me know." He looked between Sylar's eyes, still so pleased that he could stare without causing problems. Rich brown eyes, clear and alert, flitted to his own and away quickly, as if afraid of making too much eye contact. Sylar gave him a pleased smile and intake of breath, the hand on Peter's leg beginning to rub lightly. The man glanced at Peter's face and Peter raised his brows and smiled more in approval.

Sylar leaned forward hesitantly and kissed him, moving his right hand to cradle the back of Peter's head. They parted and Sylar looked so relieved and pleased with Peter offering himself up like this. His left hand came up briefly to push Peter's hair out of the way, then found its way back to Peter's thigh where it stroked up and down the outside. Peter's face was warm and he was breathing faster. He wanted to climb all over Sylar, but it seemed way premature for that. He stayed where he was, other than leaning forward and puckering his lips in invitation. That brought Sylar back to him immediately. Peter's tongue licked at the man's lips and they deepened the kiss, eyes shut. Peter reached up with his right hand to caress the side of Sylar's face, neck and shoulder, repeating the circuit many times as the kiss wore on. They separated after what seemed like minutes, both of them heaving for breath.

After only a few seconds, Sylar kissed him again, brief and fierce, then again and again as if wanting to find out what all the different kinds of kisses were like with Peter Petrelli. He gave him short, chaste pecks; breathy, intimate smooches; and deep, tongue-tangling invasions like he wanted to devour Peter's face and explore his tonsils. Peter was pushed into the keyboard and even though the edges dug painfully into his back, he had no complaint. Instead he used both arms to bring Sylar to him and encourage him, caressing, stroking, panting and finally moaning into Sylar's mouth. He twined his fingers into Sylar's hair and pulled him onto him as much as he could. Oh yeah, this was the kind of break Peter had in mind.

Sylar finally pulled away and Peter saw that his lips were reddened and wet. Sylar's hair had fallen over his face and his shirt was askew. He looked dazed. Peter let him pull back. He assumed he was in a similar disarray; he certainly felt like Sylar looked. He reached up and rubbed the pad of his thumb over Sylar's lips, wiping off their combined moisture. Sylar's eyelids fluttered beautifully at the gesture. "I liked that," Peter whispered.

"You keep saying that," Sylar panted, straightening his shirt and raking his hair out of his eyes. "You said that earlier."

"I want you to know what I like." Peter reached up and pulled Sylar's shirt to the side again just to do it. To his amusement, Sylar looked pleased with the adjustment. The corners of his eyes crinkled up in what Peter would have sworn was a genuinely affectionate expression. Peter's heart soared at that look. Sylar left his clothes as Peter had adjusted them. Peter smiled back at him just as warmly. "And besides," Peter said, shrugging nonchalantly, "you're going to find I'm not exactly the most well-spoken man in bed. 'I like that' and 'fuck' is about the sum total of my verbal repertoire."

Sylar's face flushed and he ducked his head before letting his eyes go back to Peter's face. "I'm going to find that out?" he said, voice a bit high. He coughed a little to clear it.

"Yeah," Peter said, grinning.  _Doofus. What do you think we're doing sexing each other up here? I'm sure a bed will be involved eventually._  He reached up to comb back some of the hair that had fallen into Sylar's face when he looked down. "Whenever you're ready." Sylar's expression was so grateful and pleased. He looked down and moved his left hand up to the hem of Peter's shirt. He toyed with it, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Lifting it just slightly so the very tips of his fingers barely brushed against Peter's skin. His eyes snapped up to Peter's, where Peter smiled as broadly as he could and shut his eyes, tilting his head back. Sylar didn't repeat the gesture, which was disappointing. Instead he tugged the shirt down and moved his hand back to Peter's thigh.

Peter raised his head again, inviting, "You're an incredible kisser. I can't wait to see what else you're good at."

Sylar's blush deepened. "I … haven't … much. I might not be …"

Peter laughed a little and waved a hand at the piano. "Yeah, and you couldn't read sheet music either. I'm sure you'll be a quick study."  _Assuming I manage to get you into bed without you bolting. But we'll work on that._

Sylar looked at the pages for a moment and smiled softly, letting a small sigh escape him. He leaned back to kiss again without nearly so much hesitation as before. Peter was glad to see that. He was chipping away at whatever walls Sylar had up, trying to heal whatever was wrong with him. They shared another long, leisurely moment. Sylar's hand ran down Peter's back to where he was still leaning against the piano keys. Peter's back there had gone from uncomfortable to numb, then tingles started and it had become painful for a while, but it had thankfully gone numb again just recently. He was pretty sure he'd have a bruise there come tomorrow. Sylar's fingers scrabbled back and forth where Peter was pressed against the instrument. Sylar quit kissing him, pulling Peter forward and feeling the dent in the muscles of his back. "That hurts," he said as a fact.

Peter shrugged. "A little. Small price to pay."

With surprising intensity, Sylar bit out, "You don't have to pay that." His hand stroked up and down Peter's back, rubbing at the spot. "Don't …" He shook his head forcefully and took Peter's shoulders, turning him away. Sylar scooted back and straddled the bench, taking the initiative. Peter didn't miss the protectiveness that was motivating the man. He marveled inwardly to see that.

Peter glanced back, brow raised as he wondered what Sylar was up to. A moment later Sylar rested his hands on Peter's shoulders and turned him away again, much more assertive than he usually was with Peter. There was no hesitation this time. Peter didn't mind. He didn't like being treated like a psycho who might flip out at any moment anyway.

"Just," Sylar said, pausing now and lifting his hands off like he was suddenly noticing how casual he was being with Peter. "Relax," he concluded. He started to rub, tentatively at first, but Peter made encouraging noises and Sylar's touches became more confident. Peter had given Sylar a couple massages after they'd worked out at various times, but Peter had always fended off the offers of reciprocation because he didn't want the man touching him. He hadn't seen him as a fellow human being. He hadn't seen him as capable of love and compassion, because Peter's idea of humanity couldn't integrate the murderer of his brother with someone who deserved love. He hadn't consciously made that decision even yet, but his subconscious already had. Sylar's touch was a little too light and he was doing it through a shirt, but it felt nice. Peter slumped compliantly and made happy noises as the circulation in his back recovered.

After a few minutes, Sylar scooted forward a few inches, moving his hands up to Peter's neck and starting to probe into his hair. Peter made a long, low sound of pleasure, leaning his head forward. Encouraged, Sylar brought his knees in so they touched the back of Peter's legs. Peter reached down and hooked his fingers under the man's knees and gripped, then released and rolled his palm over the joint. Sylar's hands dropped to Peter's waist, hesitating. The massage seemed to have ended and now Sylar seemed unsure of how to transition it to something else. He bent forward and put a very small kiss on the back of Peter's neck, then pulled away, waiting to see the reaction.

Peter rubbed Sylar's knees, running his hands back along his thighs as far as they could reach. "Do you mind if I back up?" Peter asked quietly. He'd been looking for a signal, a sign that Sylar would tolerate another round of intimacy. Maybe this was it.

"No." Sylar didn't say anything else, so Peter moved back a little, continuing to caress the man's legs and feeling Sylar's knees pressing in against him. He'd lifted off his hands - Peter didn't know what he was doing with them. When their increased contact was met with no objection, Peter moved back further, putting himself flush against Sylar's front. As Peter had expected, the man had a bit of an 'affection erection' going on. He wasn't alone in that. They'd been kissing like mad and then Sylar had been running his hands all over Peter's back - of course they were both still turned on. Peter could feel Sylar's heart beating too fast against his back. He slowly tipped his head back, letting it rest on Sylar's shoulder. He eased against him, letting Sylar support him. After a beat, Sylar wrapped his arms around him.

A hug. He felt warm and secure for some reason, which was odd given the person delivering the embrace. But Peter was feeling Sylar's emotions as well as his own. The man was happy and calm and Peter was sensing that. "Thank you," Peter said softly, bringing his hands up to lay them over Sylar's.

Sylar gave a brief, dry chuckle. "I should be thanking  _you_. For … earlier."

Peter assumed Sylar meant the two false starts, where they'd nearly gotten to a climax and Sylar had stopped things abruptly. Or maybe he meant the offer to practice playing music, so as to stay close to one another, stay friendly despite the freak out, and not make things awkward.  _What was all that about, anyway?_ Peter burned to ask, but didn't. Instead he smiled and said as he looked upward at the textured foam panels of the ceiling, "As a practicing medical professional, I can tell you with certainty that blue balls are not a fatal condition." He'd been so close to coming, especially that last time, that it had physically  _hurt_  not to do it. His erection had wilted immediately, but his nuts were still sore.

Sylar hesitated a beat, then laughed and gave him a squeeze. "Thank- yes, yes. I'd kind of figured that out."

 _Smarty-pants._  "Anything you know is just anecdotal evidence and I'm sure it doesn't count," Peter said loftily, squirming a little to settle himself more firmly against Sylar, who froze up at his motion, then relaxed back into it a few moments after Peter quit moving. "I'm a trained professional in these matters. You shouldn't test that at home."

"Of course not," Sylar murmured into his ear. "I wouldn't dream of it." He waited a moment, breath warm against Peter's cheek, and then kissed him on the cheekbone.

"Mmm," Peter hummed, rubbing his hands restlessly over Sylar's. "I like that too."

Their faces were so close Peter felt the curve of Sylar's cheek as he grinned. "Just making sure I know, huh?" He laid a delicate kiss on the turn of Peter's jawbone, just under the ear.

Peter pulled in air. "Yeah," he breathed. He let his hands fall back to the outside of Sylar's thighs, where they stroked slow circles against the denim. Sylar worked his way slowly and intimately down Peter's neck. Peter shivered. "Like that, oh yeah, like that."

Sylar nipped him and Peter twitched, letting his nails dig into the man's jeans for a moment. "I would say," Sylar observed, "that you liked that as well."

"Uh-huh," Peter said, nodding quickly. Sylar's erection digging into his back had a lot more to do with Peter's arousal than he suspected Sylar knew. Plucking Peter like a guitar string was obviously a big turn-on for Sylar, which translated to a big turn-on for the empath. Peter reached up and took Sylar's left hand and brought it down to rest on his navel, wondering just where the line was that had freaked Sylar out earlier. He was pretty sure it was Sylar's own arousal. "Is this okay?"

"Uh …" Sylar swallowed. He was tall enough to look over Peter's shoulder and down his front, given the way they were situated. "You want me to …"

Peter's own hand, alone, drifted further south. He moved it up and down along the strained fabric. "If you want," he invited.  _Come on, baby. Help me out here. Maybe if you see me do it you won't be so afraid._

Sylar swallowed again. "Um … kay." His hand moved down and Peter's went back to Sylar's thigh, fingernails gripping the outside seam of the jeans. Sylar's touch was delicate, excruciating in how he didn't give quite enough stimulation. He outlined him at first, getting a feel for what the parameters were. He paused to nibble at Peter's neck, provoking a low moan. Peter could feel how pleased that made Sylar, who squeezed inward with his thighs, pressing them together.

Sylar began to trail his fingers up and down with a slight pressure that left Peter whining softly for more. Peter fought the urge to buck his hips against him, even though he wanted to so bad. He let the man torture him instead. He turned his head and kissed Sylar's cheek to distract himself from the desire to thrust back against him. Peter shifted his shoulders a little and nosed at Sylar's face, getting him to turn and kiss him full-on. Their mouths opened and tongues touched immediately. Peter brought up his right hand to bury in Sylar's hair, holding him to him and feeling Sylar's arousal pour into him like water to a man dying of thirst. Peter moaned into his mouth, eyelids fluttering as Sylar finally began touching him more firmly, stroking up and down.

 _Oh God, I should have opened my pants and gotten my dick out._  He hadn't because he'd been afraid of putting Sylar off. Even now he didn't do it for fear of being shut down like earlier.  _This feels so good, so good and he's into it. Oh God, is he ever into it._ Peter bit his lip and for a moment Sylar kissed him awkwardly anyway, wanting Peter's mouth as much as Peter wanted him. Peter's gripped the man's hair in one hand and the lower part of his ass cheek in the other. "Hold me t- nhg, tighter," he managed to get out.

Sylar complied and then kissed him again, sucking at Peter's lip determinedly to make him quit biting it. He was just as consumed by desire at the moment as Peter was. Peter opened his mouth and let him in. Sylar tightened his arm around Peter's chest and pulled Peter's frame against himself. It was a gesture that so, so wanted to be a thrust and Peter could tell that was exactly what it almost was. If they hadn't been clothed, and he could get over his inhibitions, then Sylar would be bending him over and fucking him hard about now. Peter started to roll his hips despite his earlier intentions of keeping still. He rubbed backwards against the other man's hardness even though he knew that was what had frightened him before. Peter's brain was not functioning rationally - all it knew was the spiraling excitement both men were feeling, chasing one another ever upwards.

"Make me come," Peter rasped. Sylar held him firmer still across the chest, a low growl in his throat. His other hand delivered more pressure as Peter struggled and thrust against him. He could feel their joined arousal flooding through him, sharp and sudden, and he redoubled his efforts in shoving his ass against Sylar's crotch.

The man shuddered and stopped kissing him, mouth slack as he panted into Peter's. His hand stopped moving and for a second, Peter felt his panic, but Sylar had realized his predicament just a few seconds too late. Sylar whined in a moment of confused vulnerability. He'd gotten too close. He'd gotten carried away. He was coming; they were both coming and they were past the point of no return.

Peter's hand made a fist in Sylar's hair, provoking a second, even more plaintive whimpering noise as Sylar submitted to the inevitable. It was a sound that was pure, distilled sex to Peter. It was  _victory_. He felt Sylar's groin throb against the small of his back and Peter knew he had him. He'd won and he hadn't even been thinking of it consciously a contest. He'd pulled the man right over the edge with him. Peter called out exultantly from the bottom of his lungs, feeling himself go off like a firework. When he could, he sucked in a second breath, adding only slightly more articulately, "Ohhh, fuck!"

He slumped back into the arms of his apparently stunned companion. Peter could still feel the fear hammering in Sylar's chest and so he said nothing for the moment, just breathing and appreciating that he'd gotten what he wanted - a level of satisfaction he hadn't realized he wanted, in making Sylar stay. Peter dropped both hands to Sylar's legs and rested them there while he regained his equilibrium.

It was Sylar who finally broke the silence, saying, "Uh, you … uh, you … you're done?"

Peter smiled lazily and turned his head so he could see part of Sylar's face. "Yes. Yes, I'm done."  _And so are you. Why do I get the impression you're going to pretend you didn't just have a huge orgasm?_  "How about you?"

"I'm fine," Sylar said neutrally.

Peter looked away and coughed, stifling the laugh that wanted to burst out.  _The very accurate impression. You big liar._  "I thought you were kind of getting into it there."

"I think you were a little distracted," Sylar ground out stiffly.

 _Yes, very, very accurate impression. Oh well. Just leave it alone_. He felt limp and utterly relaxed at the moment and the last thing he wanted to do was argue, about anything. Instead he said, "Yeah, yeah, I was. Thanks. I guess we'll just have to try again some other time." He waved a hand with a casual, Petrelli assumption of control and said breezily, "More practice. That's the ticket."


	10. Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Sylar had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Peter lay against him, warm and boneless and completely relaxed. The smell of their combined musk and sweat was thick in the air. It was an embarrassing odor that brought to mind mysteriously stained sheets and whippings for his shameful emissions. The scent was nothing of female, of that distinctly different and alluring aroma of the  _other_. Being with Peter smelled a lot like just being 'with' himself - solitary experiences he did his best to curb, for he was no onanist. Peter, more experienced by far in being with men, seemed unfazed by the funk or the mess that must be lurking in his pants. Sylar was hyper-aware of his own mess and held perfectly still, praying it would go unnoticed, or at least unremarked.

Sylar was waiting tensely for the other shoe to drop. Surely it would. Someone would get angry; he'd get hurt. At least it was pretty unlikely that he'd be shot at this time, or have to confront Matt Parkman's angry consciousness over schtupping his wife, or have to face Lydia's all-too-incisive understanding of him. Was it even possible that for once he'd had something sexual with someone and it  _wouldn't_  end badly? He didn't think so.

He thought about his first time and how he couldn't stop kissing Elle after the sex. He had such mixed emotions about  _them_ , about  _her_. His face made a hopeless smile. Peter would probably turn out the same way - one or, maybe if he was lucky, two heavenly couplings and then something awful; probably death. He'd begun to hope it was his own this time, permanently.

He turned his head away, looking at the piano, feeling so strange and out of place in his own skin. His body was still awash in endorphins and the faintest shuddering aftershocks: too sensitive in spots, pleasantly sore in others. His emotions were a mishmash. He was happy; he was resentful. He felt possessive and needy, with opposing desires to cling to this person who had made him feel good, or to get away and be separate. His longing made him powerless and weak, yet he had just brought Peter off with his touch, his body and his presence - surely that was a form of power, too? Was he special, or just some masturbatory tool for another? He didn't know how to feel about that. He hadn't gone into this thinking about what anyone wanted but himself, but now that they'd done … it (though really he was at a loss as to how to characterize what they'd done), all he could think about was what Peter wanted out of this.

Speaking of which, Peter made a disconsolate noise and let his head loll back on Sylar's shoulder. He rubbed Sylar's knees restlessly. He needed  _something_ , wanted something. Sylar looked back to him apprehensively, trying to guess what he was supposed to be doing and feeling resentful that he didn't know.  _Well, Elle seemed real happy when I kissed her so much._

He canted his head to the side and bent to kiss Peter on the neck. He wouldn't deny he was surprised and thrilled that Peter hadn't moved away yet. It made it seem like it wasn't really over. Maybe he could pretend a little longer. All the patterns would fall, momentarily, into place before they came to their inevitable conclusion. Peter made a pleased sound at Sylar's kiss and so Sylar gave another one, earning a second, even happier noise. Sylar's mouth formed a gentle smile and he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with lust or passion. He was pleasing someone. He was doing something that was making someone happy. Even if he was being used, it made him feel good.  _At least I'm useful, at least he wants this, enjoys it. That's something, isn't it?_

Peter slowly rolled his head to one side, exposing the length of his neck to Sylar without a shred of fear. Suspicion coiled in Sylar's gut and gooseflesh marched across his skin. Why would Peter do this?  _ **How**_  could Peter do this? How could he put aside everything that had ever happened between them and be so fearless as to be with Sylar this way? The whole seduction flashed through Sylar's mind. He knew he wasn't hard on the eyes, but he couldn't fathom the attraction. Personality and history had to count for something, didn't it? He understood needing the sex and the contact, but Peter was giving him affection and kindness as well, or at least a very convincing illusion of it. It didn't fit. It  _ **had**_  to be fake.

Sylar gave Peter what he was asking for and cooperatively kissed up the man's neck an inch at a time, considering this was a Petrelli his lips were caressing - a family of betrayers and liars, kinslayers who were above nothing, manipulators of the highest order. Even if Peter generally seemed better than most, Peter was the one who was here, his mouth opening slightly and his hands beginning to trail up and down Sylar's thighs, stroking lightly. Sylar reached Peter's jaw as he considered there  **had**  to be an ulterior motive. Peter had gotten off - he should be done, shouldn't he? What else was there for him here? Sylar kissed his cheek and Peter shifted. Sylar pulled back with a quick, wary inhalation.

Peter ignored the reaction, or at least pretended like it hadn't happened. He tilted up his chin and jutted out his lips, shutting his eyes with an entitled expectation of being serviced. Sylar blinked, caught between feeling grateful Peter would allow him to touch, and offended by the arrogant assumption that he  _would_. Peter knew what Sylar wanted so desperately - so why would a Petrelli offer to give Sylar something without a price?

Sylar leaned back in slowly to give Peter the kiss he was obviously asking for. Peter vocalized a faint whine as soon as their lips touched and kept it up the entire kiss. That sound made something weird twist and curl in Sylar's gut, drowning out his fears and suspicions and theories. Sylar's desire fogged out every other rational thought in his head. He was breathing harder when he finally pulled away. A moment later, stark fear replaced the blinding lust. He didn't know what Peter was doing to him, but he was doing  _something_. He couldn't _ **think**_  when the man was kissing him, touching him. Maybe that was Peter's goal? Sylar couldn't take it. He started disengaging and moving away.

"Hey, hey! Wait!" Peter tried to hang onto him, but his grabbiness only fueled the paranoia. Sylar shoved him away, scooting backwards off the piano bench.

Sylar scrambled to his feet, trying to think of what Peter got out of doing this to him. He got off, obviously, but there had to be some other advantage, perhaps a power and control he intended to exert over Sylar. It wouldn't be the first time a Petrelli had sunk their hooks into his heart and tried to manipulate him with whispers of love. Even if Peter was generally honest and good-hearted, that only underscored how desperate he'd have to be to do what he'd just done with  _Sylar_ , of all people. If he'd go this far, then there was no telling what depths he might fall to. Sylar regarded him with his lips slightly parted and teeth clenched, the beginnings of a snarl on his face.

Peter looked confused, but he would, wouldn't he? He'd act completely innocent right now and do anything, anything at all to smooth things over. Sylar shook his head, ignoring the soothing idiocy Peter was starting to spew as he stepped closer.  _Taunting me, mocking me, showing me what I could have just so he can tear it away from me …_

" _ **Stay away from me**_ ," Sylar growled, putting every shred of hate and rage into his words. He turned and went to stride out of the room, fists balled.  _How could I have been so blind?_

"Hey, Sylar … No!" Peter ran after him and the white-hot heat inside of Sylar surged into a roaring flame. He turned and swung with everything he had. Peter's forward momentum carried him right into the blow. Sylar's roundhouse smashed his fist squarely into Peter's cheek. Peter made a strange choked noise and fell flat on his back, his head hitting the hard floor and bouncing once, one leg folded under at the knee.

Sylar stood over him, thinking about kicking him, too, while he had the chance, but Peter was perfectly still. He didn't even seem to be breathing. After a few seconds, Sylar's brows drew together. He'd hit him hard, probably harder than he'd ever hit anyone in his life, without powers.  _Did I kill him? Oh no … Please, no._  Panic clutched at his heart, but then Peter sucked in a breath and groaned in pain. The empath's hands moved erratically, twitching more than anything else. His lids fluttered and Sylar let out the breath he'd been holding. Sylar shook his head.  _He'll be fine. Bastard! He deserves worse._  He stalked out, leaving Peter on the floor.


	11. Good Night Until It Be Morrow

Peter thought he saw Sylar there, standing over him, but an instant later the man was gone like the film of Peter's life had skipped forward. Peter's eyes weren't cooperating. He reached up and tried to touch his forehead, but he missed. He missed the second time, too, so he gave it up and rolled over - that was easier, even if it made the room spin. His head ached, not just his cheek. The back of his skull where he'd hit the hard floor - concrete with a thin, barely padded layer of carpet - felt odd. A lot of things felt odd. His vision was coming back slowly; the pain was faster in returning.

 _Concussion. Shit._  He looked around the room, but Sylar was gone.  _How long was I laid out? So much for sex,_  he thought flippantly. He managed to sit up, putting together that his only injury was his head, which was now throbbing. His thoughts were muddled.  _I've got to get out of here. He might come back._

He didn't stop to consider  _why_  Sylar might come back, or that the other man might return to help him and had never, here in the Wall, attacked him without some manner of provocation, however flimsy. Peter wouldn't even have counted  _this_  assault as unprovoked, because he'd had warning and he'd felt Sylar's emotions spiraling out of control. None of that mattered though - he was afraid anyway, too confused to do more than fall back on the same creeping fear he'd felt when he first came here and realized that not only was he alone with Sylar, but trapped with him.

Sylar, the man who had thrown him off a stadium and crushed him; who had cut open his head and later killed him with a glass shard in Mohinder's apartment; who had hit him with a parking meter and choked him, toying with him at Kirby Plaza. The man who had bounced in and out of being a family member, who had helped him a couple times almost randomly, who had attacked him in his apartment and at his workplace. He'd murdered Peter's brother, he'd attacked Peter's mother, killed his father, assaulted his niece, left his niece's mother to burn to death and been responsible for the deaths of untold others. Sylar, the man for whom Peter had been forced to swallow his hate, shove aside his fear, man up, and come into this nightmare world and ask, beg, and plead with him to help others, to be good, and save someone.

Sylar … who had refused.

 _Why the hell was I fucking him?_  All the closeness and trust and intimacy they'd built up in the weeks prior was erased and obliterated. Peter's heart pounded in his chest, making his head feel like it was going to explode. Peter's fear was conditioned - four years of repeated traumatic events had made the man the embodiment of death and destruction for him. Sylar's name meant pain, if not physical, then at least emotional. It dredged up the worst events in Peter's life and threw his psyche into a pit. Here in this nightmare world, Peter faced a perpetual catch-22. He couldn't fight Sylar; he couldn't destroy him. But on the other hand, the man wouldn't help and he wouldn't even let Peter give him what Sylar seemed to desperately want - affection, connection, a relationship that might mean something.

The two men had traded plenty of blows over their time together here, but somehow this one had hit Peter far harder than any other. It was the pairing of the attack with the intimacy that did it. Peter felt useless, worthless, humiliated and degraded. He'd tried to be nice, he'd tried to make love with his  _fucking enemy_ , and been hit for it, hurt for it, and left lying on the floor like an empty condom wrapper. Everything was a loss. It was pointless. He was defeated. He was a failure and his mission here was botched. There was nothing he could do about it.

He couldn't fight, but he could at least hide from the source of his pain.

Peter got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled to the door, clinging to the frame as the world refused to stay still and upright like a decent world should. He fell twice on the trek across the lobby to the stairs, looking around furtively before slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He thought about going to his apartment in the building across the street, but discounted it immediately. Sylar might be outside - and Peter's thoughts were consumed by a fear that was almost instinctive.

He pulled himself up the stairs, stopping at the fourth floor because he was getting nauseous and the waves of dizziness were coming closer together. He could have taken the elevator, of course, but he didn't want to be confined in it, and he thought Sylar would be able to deduce which floor he'd gone to by the car's location. He didn't think about just sending the car back to the ground floor once he got here. He wasn't thinking well  _at all,_ and knowing that a common symptom of concussion was confusion didn't help when he was the one who was confused.

He made it to the second apartment along the hall before rushing inside, trying to make it to the kitchen sink. He fell at the entrance and threw up on the linoleum flooring. He was thankful he'd gotten that far at least, his tortured brain entertaining some odd thought about Sylar tracking him by the smell if nothing else. Peter threw a hand towel over the mess, resolving to clean it when he didn't feel like his head was about to fall off. He staggered to the couch where he collapsed, just barely coherent enough to be worried about himself. He thought that maybe he'd hidden himself well enough. Maybe.

He passed out.

XXX

Sylar stalked off down the street, head held high, with a disdainful sneer still on his face.  _I am no one's performing_ _ **dog**_. _Not anymore. And certainly not_ _a Petrelli's._  He went straight to his apartment and cleaned up, embarrassed at himself for letting Peter take things so far. While yes, Sylar had started the day hoping something would happen, Peter had virtually thrown himself on him and that wasn't what he'd signed up for.  _Holy shit, why did I let him do that? What was I thinking? I wasn't ready for that! What is he trying to get from me?_  It was too much, way too much, too fast and it was setting off Sylar's bullshit meter.

Or at least that's what he told himself. He buttoned the new pair of jeans and paused, trying to think if it was possible that Peter's motivations were … sincere. Was it–was it possible? He grimaced and shook his head, trying to will away far more memories than he wanted, courtesy of Nathan, that told him Peter was not like the rest of his family. The younger Petrelli declared his love easily and immediately and had generally been a giver, not a taker.

Sylar shook his head again.  _Because, c'mon, that's ridiculous._  Peter had come here to talk him into saving Emma or whoever. Sylar had declined. It had been a while and Sylar hadn't budged. Peter had stopped asking. Obviously Peter must have given up on the honorable methods and resorted to the underhanded. He was capable of it, after all.  _And_  he was a Petrelli, which made it almost automatic. That he'd managed to pull one over on his brother, convincing Nathan that Peter was a harmless little angel with his puppy-dog eyes and innocent, free-love façade just proved Peter was even better at the game than his relatives. With an effort, Sylar dredged up other memories, also courtesy of Nathan, of Peter holding a gun to Nate's head and pistol-whipping him into unconsciousness. Peter was perfectly capable of being deceitful when pushed to it. Sylar's lack of cooperation on the issue of saving Amanda or Emma or whoever was provocation enough.

Peter would be back in no time, Sylar was certain, because he  **had**  to come back. Peter was a man on a mission here and failing to woo Sylar was a threat to that mission.  _I didn't expect him to literally whore himself out to save others, but … desperate times call for desperate measures, eh, Peter?_ Peter would be trying to patch things up. He'd be trying to win Sylar back over. Whatever con he was pulling, he wasn't done with it. One punch wouldn't deter him. Peter was a really stubborn man when he set his mind to something and they'd already beaten on each other a lot during their time here. It had never put Peter off much before. Sometimes when Sylar would let Peter win, Peter would be positively fraternal, in fact.

_This could work for me. I could play him, let him think he's getting through to me, let him think that if he does a good enough job, I'll do what he wants. I can string him along, now that I know what he wants. It's not **me**  he's after - it couldn't be, can't be - it has to be his mission here that's making him be with me, it has to be his goal that's motivating him.  **That's**  why he did it, why he … was with me. Why would Peter even think I have any real feeling for him? Does it matter either way? He doesn't ask for much … not that it's that hard to fake it. Heh._

Sylar, in keeping, now had to consider his … 'partner's' feelings and he wasn't totally sure where those were placed at the moment. Peter had won that round … up until the end, there.  _So what would Peter be feeling now, after the fight?_  Sylar sighed, frowning, thinking about the times when he'd started fights just so he could let Peter take care of him afterward. The last time that had happened, Peter, with his face marred with a bloody lip and swollen eye, had done just that. He'd even gone so far as to stroke the soft skin on the inside of Sylar's forearm. Clearly he'd known the touching was what Sylar really wanted out of those fights. Peter had become more and more cooperative about giving it. Peter had never asked anything for  _that_ , either - not a hint that he was trying to manipulate Sylar into anything.

Sylar snarled at himself. It was impossible! Peter had every reason to hate him. This was all some machination. He would see. He'd wait. Peter would turn up and prove it. Peter had to know Sylar had swallowed the bait and Peter had set the hook, for a moment at least until Sylar had broken free. He'd come back to try to get Sylar on the line again. It was the only explanation.

He fixed himself lunch and then devoted himself to his watches. He hadn't worked on them in a while, which was surprising to realize just how much his days had been revolving around Peter and his activities lately. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was nice to have someone to spend time with, but it was drawing him away from … himself. It was threatening his sense of self, overwhelming him with  _other_ , with Peter.

His life was becoming all about Peter and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he wasn't happy about that. He frowned at the dust that had accumulated on his workbench and set to cleaning it with exceptional vigor. It wasn't like there was a steady stream of new timepieces piling up, but he still had several he could tinker with and puzzle out why they didn't keep perfect time. He let himself become absorbed in his work, only lifting his head when his stomach rumbled at him the third time.

He made his dinner (canned beef stew - meh) and tried to decide if he should be worried that Peter had not come knocking. He wouldn't have expected the manipulator to let this much time pass before coming by to chum the water. Doubt began to seep into his mind. _Maybe Peter didn't get up from the floor_ _back there. I did hit him really hard. What if he's too hurt to take care of himself? He always took shit care of himself._ A part of his mind naggingly added,  _but good care of me._   _Wouldn't let me help him at all, sometimes, but he'd always help me. Every time._ He tried to ignore the guilt buzzing in the back of his head, but it wouldn't disappear.

Sylar stood abruptly from his mostly finished bowl and strode over to the window, hitching the curtain out of the way and staring out into the darkened street. No one was there and he was surprised to see it was night already. He hadn't really been paying attention to the time.  _Ah, that's ironic, for a watchmaker. I heard every second, but somehow missed the passage of hours._  He stared out, trying to marshal his unruly, unsettled thoughts that seemed determined to see-saw between pride that he'd stood up for himself and a barely acknowledged guilt at what he'd done.

He went back to the table and wolfed the rest of his now-lukewarm stew, mind made up about what he'd do. He rinsed the bowl perfunctorily and headed out in haste, worry speeding his steps. His long strides ate up the few blocks between his apartment and Peter's. Peter's window was dark. Sylar knew which one was the Italian's through simple observation of which one had a light that was sometimes on and sometimes off. The others were dark or lit, but always the same way. He spared it only a glance before going into the building across the street, the one with the piano, the one where they'd had their conflict.

Sylar stopped in the doorway to the facilities room and sighed, tension draining out of him like water. Peter wasn't there. Now he felt stupid; Peter was probably fine. He'd just dragged himself off somewhere to heal. He'd probably just hit his head when he fell, in addition to getting punched, and was recuperating. Most likely, he was in his apartment sleeping it off. Sylar huffed at his unnecessary worry and turned to go back home.

On the street, he looked up at Peter's unlit window one more time. He wanted to be sure … and he wasn't. He looked back at the building he'd just come out of, thinking back on the irregular twitching Peter's hands had made the last time he'd looked at him, laid out on the floor, leg twisted under him.  _He's tough; he's fine._  He sighed.  _Why can't I make myself believe that? Why do I think there's something wrong here? Heh. Probably because everything else in my life has been a complete fuck-up. No reason why this should be any different._

 _I could … go up to his apartment and knock …?_  He stared up at the window again.  _And then what would happen? I'd be falling right into his trap. I'll see him soon enough anyway. He'll be around. He has no other choice._  He began taking slow, uneven steps back to his apartment. As he walked, his pace became increasingly regular as he managed to shove his misgivings into a box in his mind and hammer it shut for the time being.


	12. Window Pain

_First Day After_

Peter woke to his head throbbing front and back. He was lying face down (on the good side of his face, fortunately) in a pool of his own drool and perhaps worse (unfortunately) on a strange couch (which he had no idea if that was a good thing or not). He moaned involuntarily and caught himself a moment later - he was vocal during fights, but he was not very prone to showing pain once he was hurt. He would have liked to say his father drummed that lesson into him, because it seemed like the sort of thing Arthur would have gotten off on instilling in his boys, but instead it was just something the two boys had shared with their father - an inborn stoicism that rarely did them favors in expressing their feelings.

With difficulty Peter pulled himself upright. His mouth tasted like someone had thrown up in it and sadly that wasn't an exaggeration. He couldn't breathe out of his nose, which was probably for the best. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut. Carefully he palpated his injured cheek, but he couldn't tell if the bone was broken or not. It didn't matter anyway - the only treatment for such things was to leave it alone and let it heal.

He touched the back of his head.  _I feel like I got hit with a 2x4._  The fight at Mercy Heights with Sylar wandered through his brain.  _Sylar. I had sex with him on the piano bench._ The events of the previous morning slowly unveiled themselves to his sluggish mind. Peter grunted with the emotional blow that came with those thoughts - defeat, oppression, sorrow … and rejection. That last was the root of all. He'd opened himself up to the worst person he knew and he'd been not just slapped in the face, but  _punched_.

 _I feel like such a failure. Worthless._  Every shaming thing his father had ever said to him echoed in his head, more than a few of them homophobic and ugly, things Peter didn't let himself remember when he had better control: caring for others was weak; he was a fuck-up and a little faggot; he'd let the family down and dishonored them. His own thoughts traitorously continued the pattern: he'd failed to protect Nathan, which was what had gotten him into this whole mess … he'd  **failed**.  _I can't even bring a little love into Sylar's life without freaking him out and pissing him off. He must hate me._  Peter's shoulders sagged.  _He's_ _ **always**_ _hated me and he has a right to. Why did I think there was anything I could do to change that?_

He sighed and looked across the living room at the door, worrying that an angry or unstable Sylar might find him. He rose and slowly, carefully, and resolutely shoved an overstuffed easy chair in front of the door out, blocking anyone from getting inside. He didn't want Sylar to get to him. He felt hopeless and depressed. The last thing he wanted was for the cause of all his problems to come in here jeering at him or worse. He cleaned up the kitchen floor, the couch, and finally himself before moving to the bedroom to collapse on the bedspread. Sleep overtook him slowly.

Peter woke to a sharp, stabbing pain in his face when he'd restlessly tried to roll over onto his damaged cheek. He rolled back the other way with a grunt, but he'd been lying in the same position for too long. He was stiff and uncomfortable and there was only one way to lie that didn't hurt his head or face. Reluctantly, he got up.

It was daylight outside, the sky grey and uncertain. He wasn't sure if it was the day after the debacle with Sylar, or two days. For a while, Peter sat at the window, staring out through the blinds. He was pretty sure he was invisible, with the room dark behind him. Mostly, he just sat there and stared out, mind blank, a flat, reactionless aspect to his demeanor that was common for victims of concussion. He still hadn't eaten. Even though he felt the steady gnawing of hunger, the idea of putting food in his mouth repulsed him. The stunned, depressed stupor stayed with him through the rest of the day.

_Second Day After_

Thankfully, the catatonia was mostly gone when he awoke the next morning. The illusion of safety, engendered by being left alone so far, was what pulled him out of the funk enough to start his mind to thinking.  _What am I going to do?_  He was staring out the window again, his empty stomach rumbling at him. He didn't want to leave the tenuous safety of the apartment. He felt quite comfortable right where he was, where he didn't have to face anyone, where he didn't have to face  _Sylar_. Perversely, as long as he hid, he could pretend he wasn't afraid of the man. If he faced him, he might have to admit to his feelings, and none of them were simple.

Peter hung his head. To start with, he was angry at Sylar. He was also angry at himself.  _I must have pushed him too fast. But it wasn't my_ _ **fault!**_ _ **He**_ _was the one who hit_ _ **me!**_ _ **He's**_ _the serial killer._ _ **He's**_ _the fuck up!_ _ **He's**_ _the one who kept touching me and making comments and getting close to me and looking at me … all that time, that was_ _ **him!**_ _And then when I finally go and give him what he wants, he hits me._ _ **He**_ _hits_ _ **me!**_

 _I didn't hurt him. I didn't hit him. I wasn't … exploiting him. I didn't force him. … Did I?_ Peter shifted uncomfortably.  _He's an asshole. He led me on and then switched … that can't be right. I_ _ **know**_ _he wanted me. But he still hit me … Can he be that kind of person and … in love with me?_  Peter struggled with the concept.  _That's fucked up. I don't want to be with him. I don't want to be with someone like that. But could he be any other way? Can he change - not be a killer, not be an asshole, but actually be nice to someone and have it be something other than an act?_

 _Ha. Dream on, Peter. You sound like some battered wife trying to excuse her abusive husband - 'oh, he only hit me because I made him lose his temper' or 'he's so sorry, I know he'll never do it again' or 'he didn't really mean it, I can tell.'_  He remembered one too many ambulance trips with women who were afflicted with mysterious household injuries and vacant stares. For a little while longer, he stared vacantly out the window until he realized what he was doing and looked for something neutral to occupy his mind. He searched the apartment and found a deck of cards. He dragged a little table over under the window and began to play Solitaire. He determinedly kept his mind on diamonds and clubs, spades and hearts, rather than thinking about anything more immediate to his situation.

_Third Day After_

The next day he finally ate - a bowl of chicken noodle soup - which only after consuming it did he remember that it had been years since he'd eaten meat. He rolled his eyes at his own silliness. _It doesn't matter. It's all in Sylar's head anyway. It's not like a real chicken had to die for that._ He smiled (and then grimaced because that hurt his face) at the idea that some imaginary chicken had to give its imaginary life for his imaginary soup and that he had imaginary philosophical qualms about it.  _I'm such an insufferable prick sometimes. I don't know how anyone puts up with me._  He smiled faintly and went back to his table under the window, beginning to make a house of cards instead of resuming his companionless game.  _Well, given that I was living alone and had been for years, couldn't keep a relationship to save my life or theirs, I suppose no one was able to put up with me after all._

A little while later, motion out of the corner of his eye captured his attention. Sylar had returned. Instantly a tightness descended over Peter's chest, his breath shortened and his thoughts hiccupped. Sylar was pacing and stretching. He must have been sitting in front of the building Peter was currently in, which was the one directly across the street from Peter's own apartment. It was the same building the piano was in. Directly under Peter's window, where Sylar must have been sitting (unless he'd been inside - a thought which stabbed Peter's heart with terror), had left the man unseen and invisible until now.

Peter hardly breathed as the minutes ticked by. Sylar did nothing more threatening than walk out kinks in his legs and peer up and down the street.  _He wouldn't be stiff if he was inside the building looking for me. He must have been sitting on the steps, probably reading a book, like he always does when he's waiting for me to come outside. He must think I'm in my apartment. He doesn't know where I'm at. Don't panic. Calm down._

Eventually Sylar disappeared back to where he'd come from and Peter leaned over, face flat with the glass. He could just see one of Sylar's feet jutting out into the street.  _He's probably reading. He's looking for me. He's waiting for me._  Peter sighed, forehead resting on the windowpane.  _It's not over. I can't hide from him forever. I have to face this and deal with it._  He shook his head and went back to his house of cards.  _But I don't have to do it today. Let him fucking wait._

_Fourth Day After_

The next day Peter searched the apartment in scrupulous detail, amused by something as simple as cataloguing the contents of the place. He went to the window often, keeping watch. Sylar came by at least four times, loitering briefly in front of the door to Peter's apartment before going on his way, shoulders hunched and head down.  _He's missing me. He's lonely._  Peter sat down at the little table after Sylar had walked out of sight. He shuffled the deck of cards and tried to decide how he felt about Sylar's desire for Peter's company.

 _I like him. Crazy … but true. It's tough to blame him for his ability once you know him. Of course, he hit me without any influence of his ability at all. That was_ _ **him**_ _all the way. Maybe we could just be friends? Ha. He wants more than that. And to be honest, so do I. I don't want to be here alone for so long with him making passes at me and me telling him no. Or me making passes at him._  Peter smiled to himself because yeah, he'd been the instigator just as often as Sylar had. This wasn't all Sylar's big bad plan to get into Peter's pants. Peter had to admit to the same intention in return.

 _But I don't appreciate being hit. No more of that hot/cold stuff Sylar was pulling. Of course I can say that, but … Sylar really wanted me. I could feel that. He wasn't trying to pull something on me. He just … couldn't … whatever. He got freaked out about getting really turned on and when I finally got him off, he flipped._  Peter's brows pulled together.  _That's gonna complicate sex a lot. Maybe if I just go slower, like with that first kiss, or let him lead … let him lead? Give him control? Jeez, I think that's more scary that getting hit out of the blue every now and then._ Peter made an inarticulate grumbling noise. He started laying out the cards for Solitaire, avoiding following that line of thought anymore because it made him uncomfortable.

_Fifth Day After_

_Okay, fine, I'm lonely too. Or at least stir crazy. I don't want to be in here anymore. The place smells funny and I've eaten everything I want to eat in here. I gotta get out. I can just … avoid Sylar for a while more, until I don't freak out just seeing him. I know how to do that. I don't want to talk to him anyway, the asshole._  He'd long since washed out his clothes in a sink and dried them. Now he set to taking down his impromptu barricade from in front of the door.

He waited until Sylar had come and gone, obviously still trying to find him, before slipping out of the apartment and quietly padding down the stairs. Peter stopped by the room with the piano to get his guitar on his way out. The street was deserted. He walked across it to his own apartment building, opening the door and heading up. He didn't notice the bits of clear tape near the base holding a short black thread.

_Sixth Day After_

Peter looked out the window before getting ready to go out and damned if Sylar wasn't there again, waiting.  _Shit._  Apparently alert for movement at the window, Sylar looked up. Peter resisted the urge to jerk back. He'd been seen - jerking back would only make it look like he was afraid.  _I'm not afraid of you, asshole,_  he thought defiantly.  _Of course, here I am hiding in my apartment. Fucker. I'd like to see him come up here so I had a good excuse to kick his ass down all eight flights of stairs._ He glared death down at his adversary, but he suspected the nuance of his expression was lost over the distance and through the mostly open blinds.

He huffed at himself and retreated back into his apartment, pacing, running his hands through his hair and grimacing. No one was here to see his anxiety attack so he didn't try to curb it. When he calmed down a little he picked up the guitar and fiddled with it, not actually playing, but just strumming a few chords now and then and fidgeting. It took him a while to relax enough to play an actual song. He didn't go out that day.


	13. Marking Time

_First Day After_

The next day, for Sylar, was very quiet. He stayed in his apartment all day, which should have made it easy for Peter to find him. He managed to finish repairs on all the watches he had currently on his desk. He still had some that he'd long since relegated to the spare parts bin as too damaged to be worth the effort. He sat down over a dinner of cheese and sliced circles of hot dog heated on Ritz crackers and re-examined the contents of the spare parts bin.

Peter had never come by. No matter how much he tried not to think about that, it lurked in the back of his mind nonetheless. While he was tinkering, he could direct his thoughts elsewhere, but when he lay in his bed, in the still moments between slipping under the covers and slipping off to sleep, the thoughts ceased to lurk and made themselves front and center of his attention.

He thought about how he'd been the one to start most of their fights; he'd been the one who laid on the innuendo; he'd been the one to talk Peter into their first kiss; he'd been the one who had risen and crowded close to Peter as he stood next to the piano. Sylar had also been the one to kick Peter out after the camping trip and that absolutely lovely night on the couch where Peter had slept with his head on Sylar's shoulder and then on his lap. Peter had stopped in the doorway to protest Sylar's boorish behavior and he'd slammed the door on him, catching him between door and frame, then cuffed him on the head and kicked him in the leg, booting him out before locking the door behind him for good measure - and all because Sylar had become too embarrassed to admit he was attracted to the man.

Because if he admitted that, he'd be giving Peter … everything, too much power over him. But the problem was Peter  _already_  had that power over him and clearly Peter knew it. The admission still seemed impossible. If it was out in the open between them, then Peter would abuse it - he'd tease, he'd avoid him, he wouldn't talk to him. Everything would become conditional - do this for me or I won't do this other for you. Or it might. Right now it was okay; it was safe. Sylar knew what was going on: Peter was trying to manipulate him. And that was acceptable because he understood the stakes - his feelings didn't have to be involved. Peter just thought they were. Sylar was used to pretending like that; he could let it happen. But if he had to admit his  _real_  feelings then he was … lost. He had no idea how to handle that, especially with a man, especially with  _Peter_.

The whole man-on-man thing was bad enough. He felt downright queasy about it. It wasn't like he wasn't going to burn in hell before, but this was … well. It was gross. It was messy. It was unnatural. And oh god, had it felt nice. He shuddered.  _Another man turned me on like that. There's something wrong with me. … Okay, that was never in doubt. But there's something_ _ **different**_ _wrong with me!_

Peter hadn't talked to him for two weeks after Sylar had so rudely thrown him out of his apartment after the camping trip. Sylar stared up at the mottled ceiling, chewing his lip. How long would it be this time? And was it possible that Peter would cut back on everything else, too? Sylar licked his lips, remembering, imagining the taste of Peter's lips there on his own. He shouldn't like it, but oh, he did.  _What if Peter never touches me again at all? What if, instead of giving himself up like he did, now he won't give me anything, even just pretending to be friendly unless I agree to help this Emma person?_

 _Fine, then I'll agree._  It wasn't that tough a choice. It wasn't like Emma was around anymore anyway. All Sylar would be doing was playing along with Peter's persistent fantasy that they were trapped in a mental construct - which seemed as likely as any other explanation of the warped reality they were in, but Sylar knew how much time had gone by. Whatever pressing reason that had brought Peter into Sylar's hell had long since passed.

He did a mental review of everything that had happened, what Peter had done, what he'd done in reaction, what he had been feeling and why.  _I didn't do anything wrong - a few mixed signals maybe, but that's normal, isn't it? What did he expect, for me to be perfectly cool with him pushing his erection against me like I was a sex doll or something? No. He had to expect a few false starts. I have what he wants. He'll be back. But if I want him here faster, I'll need to go to him._

Tomorrow - he'd do it tomorrow, first thing, instead of waiting weeks like before. He'd find Peter and make it clear he was okay with playing Peter's game. He'd do whatever it was he needed to do or agree to, to make this awkwardness and distance go away. _Of course it has to be_ _ **me**_ _who's making things right. Wouldn't want to have a Petrelli admitting they were doing anything wrong._  He snorted.  _Of course I'm the one who has to fix things because he wouldn't bother. He doesn't want me like that - he just wants to mind-fuck me so I'll do whatever he tells me to do. There's no way he_ _ **could**_ _really want me, not with what I am._

He was finally able to sleep.

_Second Day After_

Sylar waited patiently outside of Peter's apartment building. It had been nearly two full days since he'd punched the guy out. Peter was around somewhere and he wouldn't stay in his apartment forever. Peter did tend to avoid him after their little spats, but he'd never actually  **hid**. In fact he usually seemed to be making an effort to show that Sylar hadn't run him off, parading around and acting like Sylar didn't exist, refusing to talk to him, alternating between glaring at him and looking through him. It was enough to make Sylar want to smack him again. He'd done that once - one of the few times Peter got him down and kicked the shit out of him, not stopping when he'd clearly won but instead hammering it home. Lesson learned. Peter seemed a little downright triggery at times, best not to set him off if he could avoid it.

Sylar sighed and leaned back against the brick, staring up at Peter's window. He'd brought a book, but it lay to the side, unopened. In the day, he couldn't see if Peter's light was on or not, so he'd have to depend on catching a glimpse of him at the window.

 _Why did Peter want to fuck me? Why didn't he just lead me on? Why would he actually let me touch him? He put my hand right on his … thing. Well, through pants, but still. I could feel it._  He swallowed and quickly hustled his thoughts away from what that had felt like.  _He didn't_ _ **have**_ _to do that. If he just wanted me to save all those people, then why not make out with me a little and promise to fuck me, or let me fuck him, after I did it? Fucking me_ _ **first**_ _doesn't make much sense, unless he thinks sex with him is so awesome that once I have a taste, I'd do anything to keep it._

He contemplated how it had been, how much he'd liked it and what he might do to have that again. _What I'm already doing, waiting here for him to come out like I'm desperate for it!_ He growled and looked away from the window, snatching up his book, angry and resentful of the grip Peter had on him. He even managed to read a few forgettable paragraphs before his thoughts strayed back to the more important issue.

_I still think he wants something; I just don't know what it is. All he's claimed to want is my help with Emma and that's just dumb and harmless, so … I guess being 'manipulated' for sex is okay … it's just sex. Maybe that's all Peter wants … no, not all … but maybe that's why he went all the way. He's horny. If Peter's kink is making me pretend I really want to be with him, then I kind of have to do it or go without, right?_

_Desperate again._  He sighed. It was a long day, and it was just getting started.

_Third Day After_

The next day found Sylar waiting again, but less patiently.  _Is Peter even in there? He's got to run out of food eventually. Of course, he has an entire apartment building to raid, I guess. Asshole._

A few fruitless, boring hours later, his thoughts wandered again.  _Why does Peter act like he likes me? It's not just the sex, but the other stuff too? He smiles at me. Sometimes when he looks at me … he looks friendly, I guess. He looks like he cares, like he's really listening. Why does he do that? He doesn't_ _ **have**_ _to do that. I'd be sucking up to him even if he was kicking me in the teeth. Hell, he_ _ **has**_ _kicked me in the teeth in a few of those fights and I've come right back. He knows that_. Not for the first time, Sylar wished he could crack Peter's skull open and see what was going on with him.

He got up and stretched, wandering up and down the street a few score of paces and then returning, getting the circulation going in his legs again. He stood in the middle of the street and pondered.  _Every time_ _ **I've**_ _kicked_ _ **him**_ _in the teeth, metaphorically of course, because I wouldn't risk fucking his mouth up like that, he hasn't been the one to come back. He doesn't leave, really, but he avoids me if the fight was a big deal and not something where I poked him until he lashed out and then I let him patch me up._

He grimaced and raked his hand through his hair as he realized what that might mean.  _He's not going to come back, even if he was fucking me to try to manipulate me, because I punched him in the fucking face! I didn't stick around. I didn't make it right. I didn't take care of him like he's always taking care of me after a fight that he wins. Whenever I win, he stomps off and won't talk to me. That's the pattern. There's no reason why that would change if he was trying to con me. The man has an ego, dammit. It's got to be doubly bruised if I caught him at his game_ _ **and**_ _knocked him out over it. Hell, he might not even think he should try that anymore. Maybe just like I learned not to slap him for giving me the cold shoulder, maybe he thinks he should never be with me because I might hit him afterward. Dammit!_

He cursed himself and hung his head, stalking back over to his book where he threw himself on the hard ground.  _That whole patient/kind routine was throwing me off, so … I overreacted … by a mile. And I hit him … shit. This is Peter; he doesn't play like that. If he hurts me, he usually tries to make it right. If I hurt him, and I don't try to make it right, which I never have, then he avoids me … he hates me and he doesn't hide it. I don't even have any excuse for this. We weren't fighting. We weren't even really arguing. This isn't good. This is seriously not good._

_Fourth Day After_

That morning, Sylar took clear tape and a spool of black thread around to each door on Peter's apartment. He put a bit of tape on the door and the frame, with a short length of string between them. If the door was opened, the string would be pulled loose. Sitting outside of Peter's apartment wasn't doing any good. At least this way he'd know if Peter had gone in at all.

He was beginning to panic at Peter's continued absence. Even when Peter was not talking to him, he'd usually seen him by now, walked in on him working out (the equipment was untouched), found him playing music (so were the instruments), or caught a glimpse of him on the streets. But now there was nothing. It was like he was alone all over again and fear was starting to torment Sylar's every waking hour.

The strings remained in place, untouched, all day.

_Fifth Day After_

The strings were there in the morning too, which dismayed Sylar even more. He'd clung to the hope that maybe Peter was going out at night and the string would show that. Unless the medic was rappelling down the side of the building, that wasn't the case.  _Did he move? Maybe he moved. Or maybe he left altogether. He might be in another city by now. I wonder how he's going to rationalize that to himself and his crazy worldview?_

As Sylar walked by on his way to his apartment for lunch, he finally had a positive sign. The thread was pulled from the front door of Peter's apartment building. Sylar felt that a weight was lifted from him. He waited for an hour, but there was no sign of Peter and the thread didn't indicate whether Peter had gone in or come out. Sylar taped the string back and went to his apartment for a hurried lunch. He returned to find the string in place. He waited patiently until long past sunset.

_Sixth Day After_

Even knowing Peter was around didn't mean Sylar got to spend any time with him. He sat patiently outside the apartment building the next day, too, seeing Peter look down at him through the window a couple times, but Peter didn't come out. A full day of waiting drove the point home well enough – Peter wasn't going to come out that door while Sylar sat outside of it. Feeling frightened and rejected by Peter's change in habits, Sylar skulked off to find more watches to fix.

_At least he's still here, sort of. If I could just talk to him and if he'd just tell me what I need to do to fix this …_


	14. Weighty Subjects

****

Peter spent the next few days laying low and avoiding Sylar, but he didn't hide out in his apartment the whole time. It was a big city and there were twenty-four hours in a day. He went out the back door if he had to, but mostly he just waited until Sylar wasn't waiting outside before exiting himself. He avoided Sylar's haunts, stayed close to buildings instead of walking in the middle of the street, and spent much of his time roaming around the buildings that were a couple hour's walk from where they lived.

It left him a lot of time to think. His mind kept going back to various moments with Sylar. One time in particular jumped out at him. It was the first time he'd realized just how much and directly he turned the man on, weeks earlier. He could see now how much he'd bungled it, but at the time it hadn't been so obvious …

* * *

Peter was doing leg curls when Sylar came to the weight room. Peter had watched Sylar lurk around when he was working out, but always before the man had looked in with expressions that ranged from ogling to annoyance and then moved on. Today he opened the door and walked in.

Peter glanced up at him, at the way Sylar leaned against the door frame and lifted one brow with a contemptuous expression on his face. Peter made a humorless chuckle at Sylar's look and went back to his workout. He had the impression that Sylar didn't think much of any activity Peter engaged in that took his attention away from Sylar. Sylar loomed large and cast a big shadow - not too different from Nathan, actually, and Peter had been, if not comfortable, then at least conditioned to give way and make room for his brother. Still … he kind of resented it at times. And Sylar was not Nathan.

"You need something?" Peter called out.  _Other than, you know, me paying attention to you?_

Sylar gave a deep, dramatic sigh. "If you think this is all just a head trip, some delusion in my brain, then why do you bother to work out?"

Peter smirked. "Maybe I do it so you'll think I'm stronger, and it'll be easier for me to kick your ass in here." That was part of it. The other part was that he just liked doing it - simple physical repetition. It was soothing and helped him focus his thoughts. If a person wanted to get all spiritual about it, it was a sort of meditation. He could zone out and turn his brain off, thinking of nothing and no one, not even himself.

Sylar frowned, seriously considering Peter's stated reason.

Peter found the man's severe expression comical. He gave an easy grin and finished his set, leaning forward over the top rollers after he was done. "Have you ever had an exercise routine?"

Sylar's face shifted immediately to defensive and unsure, then he covered it with arrogance. One of Peter's brows crept upward at how clumsy that was. He'd either caught Sylar off guard, or the reaction was contrived. It didn't seem contrived. Sylar cleared his throat and said, "There were … there were weight machines in high school, of course."

_But he didn't say he'd used them._  "'Course, yeah," Peter nodded, getting up. "You want to work out with me?"

The arrogance slipped in surprise at the invitation. Sylar glanced around the room and Peter had an odd impression that everything in here was Peter's 'toys', and he'd just asked Sylar if he wanted to play. The man looked eager, but he said not a word. Peter jerked his head towards one of the machines he'd liberated from the YMCA and moved here to be closer to his apartment. "Try this one out. This is a chest press."

Sylar settled himself in, with a lot of looks at Peter, maybe because this put them a lot closer to one another than they usually got. Peter noticed the looks and knew the probable reason, but the proximity didn't bother him at the moment. Peter's sense of personal space was a lot more limited than Sylar's, especially if there was a  _reason_  for being close, like now. He lightened the weight a lot, glancing over Sylar's frame and trying to estimate his strength. "You'll need to lose the dress shirt or else you're going to get it all sweaty. That doesn't look like a fabric that will move with you anyway."

"Okay," Sylar said with a semi-naughty smile like Peter had just asked him to strip.

Which Peter supposed he  _had,_  but he hadn't thought of it like that. Peter gave a couple chuckles and then cast another eye over Sylar's musculature after he shed the shirt, his upper body clad in an armless singlet now. Peter moved the weight up one bracket as Sylar settled back in place. "Try it now."

Sylar did, moving the machine smoothly, without the jerk that came with the weight being too light. Still, Sylar said, "It's not heavy enough."

"You don't want it too heavy. This isn't a contest. You need to find what you can lift that gives you only a little burn after ten or fifteen reps, and stick with that. It builds tone."

"It's too light," Sylar insisted. "I saw what it was set on when I sat down. Put it heavier."

Peter moved back to the weights to hide his grin _. So it_ _ **is**_ _a contest, huh? You think you need to be stronger than I am and show how you're all big and strong?_  Peter obediently raised the weight a couple notches and watched as Sylar did a few repetitions. He didn't seem to be straining.  _Okay, maybe you're stronger than you look, but you still shouldn't start your first workout trying to push yourself._

"Come on," Peter said jovially. "Let's get you set up on some other machines so you can get some balance. A good routine works all your major muscle groups in rotation, then you cycle through them again a few times."

"That's what you do?" Sylar asked, following him to the leg press.

"Yep. Here, try this one." Peter showed him the machines and adjusted the weights, staying consistently ten to fifteen pounds heavier than he thought Sylar needed to be lifting. But it kept the man from complaining it was too light and he didn't seem to be overtaxing himself. After showing him the ropes, Peter went back to his own routine, though he noticed Sylar followed him from machine to machine, copying.

Since he had company, Peter kept at it longer than usual. He was genuinely entertained to have someone in here with him, despite the attractions of it as a solitary exercise. He liked the companionship, quiet though it was. It was sort of like when Sylar would listen to Peter working at the piano or the guitar while Sylar read a book, but _this_  time, Sylar was working  _with him_. It was an engagement, a sort of reaching out, a hell of a lot more of sharing himself and his time than reading a book while Peter banged away at the keys or strummed on the strings. Even if he thought Sylar was trying to bulk up so he could take him more easily in fights.

When they were done, Peter slapped a friendly hand over Sylar's shoulders and said, "Hey, how about I walk you back to your place and we'll get lunch?" He didn't have anything much to eat at his own place and he didn't really want Sylar in his apartment. But he'd been in Sylar's a few times. It didn't seem off-limits, even if the surprised look Sylar shot him let Peter know he'd just invited himself over. "Or we could check out a restaurant," Peter amended in response to that look.

"No, no!" Sylar said quickly. "My place is fine." He scrambled up from the bench and grabbed his shirt with a stiffness that let Peter know that yes, he'd overextended himself.

They walked back slowly, making small talk about high school sports. They'd both been good at swimming and diving; neither had been much into other sports. Once they arrived, Sylar confessed, "I'm not all that hungry, Peter."

Peter shrugged.  _Definitely overextended himself. My fault - I shouldn't have let him lift that much._  "Okay, well have a seat and I'll see if there's anything here that suits my fancy." He missed the raised eyebrow and suggestive expression Sylar wore as the other man went to his chair, where he sank down with a groan. Peter heard the sound though as he poked around in the refrigerator. Nothing really grabbed his attention. He filled a couple glasses of water, downing half of his in a long swallow as he looked at the back of Sylar's head and the tense way the man was sitting.

_He's going to be hella sore tomorrow. I hope he comes back though. That was … nice. It was nice to have him there. I liked him being there_. He took a more sedate drink and considered that. Previously, they'd played board games at Sylar's request, talked about things (mostly at Sylar's request), and spent time together (again, mostly Sylar seeking Peter out and not the other way around), but today's activity had a different flavor to it. Peter was well-trained in doing what other people wanted - finding out what they liked and giving it to them. He couldn't remember the last time someone had engaged with him on something  **he**  liked.

Sylar was no different, by and large. He'd made his opinions of Peter's preferences quite clear: comic books were for kids, helping people was naïve, Peter's idealism was immature, working out was stupid …  _he didn't made fun of the music, at least. There is that._  It was a lot easier for Peter to play in someone else's sandbox than to invite someone into his own, but here in this world, with Peter's own reluctance to connect with Sylar, it left it to Sylar to connect with Peter. And while the other man didn't seem aware of what he'd done, that didn't mean he hadn't reached out in a way that few ever had for Peter. He'd chosen to spend his time with Peter, doing Peter's things.  _I'd like him to do that again._

Peter walked over, bringing the other glass of water to Sylar. "Here. You should drink all of this. You're going to need a lot of water to flush the toxins out of your muscles. The more you drink, the less sore you'll be tomorrow."

Sylar nodded, drinking a little to be polite before setting it aside. Peter let his hand drop to Sylar's shoulder and met the man's questioning gaze briefly. Peter wanted to be nice. He felt sorry for how sore Sylar was going to be. He was deeply pleased Sylar had worked out with him and he wanted to show his appreciation. He stepped behind the other man, feeling and seeing the tensing across Sylar's frame, knowing he'd triggered a hyper-awareness of where he was and what he was doing. Peter said nothing, not wanting to create the awkwardness of conversation or give Sylar an opportunity to decline his offer of gratitude. Peter knew he'd just stepped right past the wall Sylar kept up around himself. He did it anyway because he thought if he didn't, then Sylar would never let him in.

Peter put both hands on either side of Sylar's shoulders, gripping and releasing gently, then rolling back and forth with alternating pressure. It felt good to touch someone and feel them warm and alive under his hands. It had been a long time since he had, other than inadvertent or momentary contacts, and for Peter that was a big deal. He  _liked_  touching people. Sylar wasn't objecting, even if he was literally holding his breath. Peter kept rubbing his shoulders slowly until he felt Sylar's chest rise and fall with respiration. He carefully manipulated the shoulder girdle, letting his thumbs work small circles of pressure as Sylar slowly relaxed into it.

Sylar let his head fall forward a little and Peter took that as encouragement, moving his hands to the man's neck, resting his fingers on the sides while his thumbs worked the muscles at the nape of Sylar's neck. He slid his fingers up into the man's hair to rub at where the tendons connected to the skull, provoking a sharp inhalation and a small, not-entirely-throttled noise of pleasure from Sylar. The man shivered. Peter smiled. He wasn't  _that_  good at this, but it was nice to know it was having an impact. He worked back down, going as far as the middle of Sylar's lumbar region. Sylar leaned forward and scooted to the edge of his chair to cooperate, glancing back a couple times with a hopeful, but confused smile. Peter answered it warmly with a smile of his own and then worked his way back up, spreading out over Sylar's ribs and shoulder blades, then down his spine again.

On the third pass up he moved out to the deltoids. Sylar seemed to be getting more tense now rather than more relaxed. His breathing had shortened and his hands were in his lap, arranged with a false casualness that ended up drawing more attention than it diverted. Peter hesitated, hands on Sylar's biceps, as he realized what the problem was.  _Sylar is hiding a boner. He has … a_ **boner** _, from me … oh. Oh wow. Oh-kay._

Not wanting to make an issue of it, Peter resumed his attentions, but moved back up the arms to the shoulders and rubbed them in a firmer pattern otherwise identical to how he'd started. He was a little confused, a little pleased and a lot nonplussed about Sylar's response. Yes, people had that reaction sometimes, or so he'd heard, and it was a bit flattering, but it hadn't been Peter's goal and he hadn't been thinking of Sylar in a sexual way  _at all_.

He finished up with a couple decisive, non-intimate pats on the back. "So, uh," Peter said, "I need to go do some shopping and stuff. I figure you'll be needing to take a shower and things. Make sure you drink lots of water, okay?" Sylar made a mute nod. Peter gave him another friendly pat. "Might be a good idea to do some stretching later on. I'll see you around."

"Sure," Sylar said, his voice a little reedy and tight.

Peter let himself out, leaving Sylar to manage his arousal however he saw fit.

* * *

_I was pushy, again. I am way, way too pushy with him. I didn't let him take his time on the machines, I invited myself over to his place and I put my hands on him without even asking. I'm too much for him. He wants it; he wants it bad, but I've got to find a way to let him take things at his own pace, while letting him know it's okay. I rush him and he gets defensive, he tries to do too much, like putting too much weight on the machines or freaking out during sex. I gotta take it **slow**._

_Of course, that assumes I'm gonna be with him again._ He sighed and rubbed at his brow. He knew this avoidance crap was only a matter of time. There was only one other person in the world and Peter was going to end up spending time with him. He could probably make it determinedly nonsexual if he wanted to, but that was the problem - he didn't want to. It set Peter's teeth on edge that his desire for intimacy and touch and affection were not under his control, anymore now than with Caitlin or Simone or any of the various others he'd fallen for in his life. Maybe if he'd had other options he wouldn't have felt this way towards Sylar, but he didn't, and so his heart was doing what it always did and finding a way to love.

It made him irritable.

After that first workout, Sylar had been enthusiastic about more and Peter had been pleased with the company, but he kept his hands off the man no matter how much Sylar moaned and groaned about his poor, sore, overworked muscles. Not long after that, Sylar had started picking fights with him, losing them, and then begging for help getting patched up after. Peter saw the pattern perfectly now. Peter had fallen for it at first, then when he realized what was going on … he really fell for it, which he regarded as sick and kind of sad, but it was what had happened. He diverted Sylar into music as fast as he could. Music, camping, games, conversation - Peter had made a determined effort to keep Sylar busy for weeks now. It was better than getting beaten up and he had really enjoyed their time together, but it wasn't how Peter wanted to live.

 


	15. Pillow Fight Club

Days passed while Peter hid himself from Sylar. There were things Sylar could do to pursue him and he did a few of them - watching from various vantage points and observing as Peter snuck off down the sidewalks and alleyways, moving fast at first, then slower when he thought he was beyond Sylar's sight. But Sylar had a pair of binoculars and plenty of tall buildings to look from. He watched Peter make his way in a direct line as far from where they lived as Sylar could track him. Sylar didn't bother to follow him on foot; it was too easy to get caught that way and he didn't want to spook Peter. The empath was already acting oddly, having broken the usual pattern.

Their relationship might not patch itself back up, but Sylar believed that as long as he didn't press Peter too hard, Peter wouldn't leave entirely. He was still sleeping in the same apartment. Too much pressure and he might flee entirely, like apparently he'd done right after the recent incident. And so Sylar watched and waited. It left him with a lot of time to think, mostly about Peter. He remembered a time from weeks before, that now on reflection he realized how badly he'd mishandled …

* * *

Sylar was deep in the book he was reading, sitting on a frumpy couch they'd pulled into the facilities room some weeks earlier. Peter was wandering around fitfully, filled with a restless energy that Sylar had noticed came over the medic from time to time. Usually this preceded some 'project' of Peter's, generally another ill-fated attempt to ' _get out_ ', however ludicrous Sylar thought that was. Sylar was still of the opinion that whatever had happened to warp reality, it did not involve himself being bested by Matt Parkman in a battle of wits. There were so many possibilities more likely than  _that_.

And so he read his story, hoping Peter would burn off his energy on something a little more practical, or better yet, just calm the fuck down. Sylar was doing his best to ignore him, which wasn't too hard as he was getting to the really good part in the book.

Peter scuffed Sylar's foot as he walked by. Sylar glanced at him and pulled up his feet. He was all leg at times and he would agree that they were sticking out a long way from the couch. But it was a huge room.  _What the hell is Peter doing needing to walk around over here?_ he groused mentally. Peter had walked out of the room, so Sylar shook his head and went back to reading. A few minutes later, Peter came in with a couple pillows, which he tossed on the couch, again hitting Sylar in the process. Sylar gave them a perplexed look. Peter poked him in the shoulder, kind of hard, while Sylar was examining the new additions to the couch. "Hey!" Sylar objected, but Peter was already on the move again, acting like he'd done nothing at all.

 _Weirdo._  Sylar rubbed his shoulder and found his place again in the text. He looked at the pillows once more, wondering what they were there for. He supposed he could lie on them. Yes, that was probably it. Peter was being oddly considerate, as he often was.  _Really a weirdo._  He returned to reading.

 _ **Bonk!**_ Something small and light hit Sylar right on the head. He jumped and nearly dropped the book, looking up to see Peter smirking at him and a ping-pong ball bouncing, then rolling away from him across the carpeted floor. Sylar stared, not sure at all what this was about.  _Is Peter saying he wants to play ping-pong?_  "What's going on?"

Peter shrugged. "Nothing." He turned and walked off to the other end of the big room, shuffling papers on the piano, acting disinterested. Sylar gazed after him for a while, unsettled by not knowing what was going on with Peter. Not that that was new - it was a constant feature of dealing with the Italian. Peter was mostly consistent, but it was like there were things he didn't even think through and instead just did when the fancy struck him, like a reflex or an instinct. It was irritating as hell to Sylar, who desperately wanted everything (and everyone) to make  _sense_.

Finally he went back to his story. Minutes passed. Peter trolled around the rest of the room, dusting now, not that the room needed it. There were no spiders to create cobwebs, though dust did at times accumulate. At least Peter was busy doing something other than - _ **Bonk!**_  Sylar jumped again as a second ping-pong ball bounced off his skull. He bared his teeth and barely restrained himself from seething and snapping  _'What the hell?'_ at Peter. It wasn't a harmful attack - what Peter was doing - but it was  _annoying_. And frustrating because Sylar couldn't understand why it was being done.  _Is this some sort of passive aggressive dominance display? Proving he can tease me and I can't do anything to him? He's got another thing coming if that's what he thinks!_

Peter reached down to his pocket and pulled out another ping-pong ball. Sylar glared death at him. Peter's grin widened with joy and mischief. He tossed the ball up and down slowly a few times, enjoying Sylar's undivided attention, clearly daring him to do something about it. Sylar glanced down at his book. As he'd expected, there was a flash of motion from Peter. Sylar's hand whipped up and caught the ball even as his head was jerking back in case he missed. Sylar rose to his full height, glowering. He crushed the tiny plastic ball in his hand and threw it down disdainfully at Peter's feet.

"Woo!" Peter hooted derisively at him, of all things, looking utterly unimpressed. Peter laughed at him and that ran all through Sylar.

Sylar turned back to the couch to set his book down. He was going to do something about this and he was going to do it now, but he hadn't quite decided  _what_  to do. Apparently, Peter had had more than one ping-pong ball on his person though.  _ **Bonk!**_  Sylar finished putting his book down without reaction, then whirled on Peter and lunged at him with an enraged snarl. But just as Sylar had been expecting the ball earlier, Peter was expecting the attack. Peter made an excited yelp and leaped away, hotly pursued. He dodged, he ducked and Sylar's fingers scrabbled against Peter's shirt once but didn't get a grip. Peter raced back towards the other end of the room and grabbed one of the pillows, spinning and throwing it in Sylar's face.

Sylar caught it reflexively, but kept coming on. Peter fell on the couch, snatching up the other pillow and swinging it just as Sylar loomed over him, fist balled.  _Peter isn't getting away this time! No more of -_ _ **Whump!**_  A pillow to the face knocked Sylar aside a little, but it didn't keep him from connecting with his swing. He caught Peter across the forehead though instead of the face, jogging Peter's head back instead of smashing in his face.

"Ow! No fists!" Peter barked out and for a moment, Sylar was confused as to why Peter would even imagine he got to dictate what form of punishment Sylar inflicted for Peter being an ass. The confusion made Sylar hesitate. Peter pulled his pillow back, getting a good grip on it, with both hands. Peter looked up into Sylar's face with a growing uncertainty, like this was the first time he realized that Sylar didn't know what the fuck was going on. Sylar looked at the pillow he was still holding in his off hand.

 _Oh._  A moment passed and Sylar's mood shifted suddenly, from angry to amused.  _Oh! It is_ _ **on**_ _! It is_ _ **so**_ _on!_

Sylar slammed the pillow repeatedly into Peter, who was still on the couch, trapped there by Sylar looming over him, raining down pillowy vengeance. Peter gave as good as he got, hitting hard enough that the blows made Sylar fight to keep his balance. Peter was laughing, which wasn't helping his whole attack routine any, but it was slowly making Sylar lighten up. An infectious grin was spreading across the former killer's face. This was the most excitement he'd had in weeks, since the last time they'd actually fought, with the intention to hurt each other, in Sylar's endless cycle of posturing for dominance followed by provoking conflicts just for the attention he could get afterward. His blood was pumping, heart pounding and he was really getting into it.

In a quick change of tactics, Peter lunged off the couch and tackled Sylar across the middle. Adrenaline surged and Sylar foresaw a moment of being driven into the hard floor with Peter's entire bulk slamming down on top of him, but it was too late to do anything about it. He landed roughly, the air driving out of him in an involuntary huff, but Peter didn't land on top of him. Intentionally – it had to be intentional, Peter was too good a brawler to have accidentally passed up the opportunity to hammer him – Peter had let go and hit the floor himself to the side. Peter scrambled up, grabbing his dropped pillow with one hand and whapping a still-somewhat-stunned Sylar in the face with it.

Sylar jerked to the side, bringing up his own pillow. Peter was grimacing and rubbing his elbow as Sylar brought his weapon up and smacked it into the side of Peter's head, hard. Peter was knocked to the side. Sylar got to his knees, getting his pillow in both hands and pressing his advantage with blow after blow. Peter made some ineffectual resistance, still using his pillow one-handed, before being forced over on his back. Baring his teeth, Sylar moved in for the kill, jerking Peter's pillow away from him and shoving both in Peter's face, pressing him to the floor.

Peter's hand went to Sylar's thigh and dug in, claw-like. The other pawed at Sylar's wrist, failing to get a grip on him. A few seconds passed in silent struggle before Sylar abruptly realized he was suffocating his … (friend? No, of course not – he didn't rate that status) companion. He jerked the pillows away, letting Peter breathe. Peter forced a few laughs to show no hard feelings, but his expression was wary enough to make Sylar feel guilty.

Sylar fell back slowly on the floor, ending on his back, opening himself to whatever revenge Peter might want to take. Not that he expected any, or got it. Peter wasn't the sort. The man was rubbing at his elbow again, the one on the hand he'd quit using to hold the pillow, the one that hadn't been able to grip Sylar's wrist. The medic was flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist. He still seemed to have plenty of mobility in the limb, so Sylar figured it was a simple sprain – nothing to worry about. It occurred to Sylar that Peter would have avoided that injury if he'd landed on Sylar.

Sylar stretched his long limbs on the floor and tucked the two pillows – his own and the one he'd won from Peter – behind his head. It was nice to know he could bask in his victory without repercussion.  _And I didn't even have to kill anyone._ He glanced over to see Peter rather blatantly checking him out. Sylar's eyes widened. He'd gathered Peter wasn't unattracted to him and Sylar had certainly noticed he got more than his share of looks. Peter saw he'd been noticed and he jerked guiltily, making a show of examining his elbow once more.

 _Hey … look at me like that again, Petrelli._  Sylar stretched and flexed, arching his back off the floor by several inches. He had some bruises from where he'd hit the floor, but it was nothing serious. Peter's attention remained steadfastly absorbed by his injury, much to Sylar's disappointment. Sylar flopped back, raising his arms and folding his hands behind his head, elbows fanned out to either side. "You okay?" he asked Peter, trying to get him to look at him again. It earned him a brief glance at least.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Peter said, smiling. He reached up and touched his forehead where he still wore a red mark from Sylar's knuckles. "You thought we were really going there for a moment, didn't you?"

 _In case you didn't notice, Peter, we_ _ **were**_ _really going there for a moment._  He didn't say that though. "I don't get in pillow fights very often."  _Ever … until now._

Peter chuckled. "That was fun though." He lay down on the floor where he was, more than two arm's lengths from Sylar. Peter crooked the elbow on his good arm and folded it under his head to cushion it. He was staring fixedly at Sylar's armpit. It was enough to make Sylar self-conscious, wondering if the brief exertion had caused a sweat stain or something. He thought not, but he worried anyway. If he had not also worried that Peter wouldn't look at him at all, he'd have put his arms down. Instead he tried to allow the gaze without getting worked up, directing his eyes to the ceiling for the moment. He was being looked at, after all, and it wasn't a  _bad_  look. Peter gave a soft sigh.

Sylar glanced back and damned if Peter's eyes weren't roaming across his chest now. Peter saw he'd been caught again and studied the carpet.  _He keeps checking me out_. Sylar's thoughts turned that over, considering Peter's occasional, peculiar surges of energy. He turned his head to look straight up, but he could  _feel_  that Peter was back at it, gazing at him once more. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but he let it pass. It felt kind of good, really.  _I wish he'd fuck me with something other than just his eyes, though._

 _Fucking … I don't think this has anything to do with getting out – all this messing with me, pillow fights, trying to rope me into those stupid projects of his. I think he's horny and he's trying to find an outlet._ Sylar resisted the urge to look at Peter again, not wanting to scare him off. He had no idea how to encourage it though. He (Sylar) was here and he'd made his availability plain more than once. Peter just … kept not taking him up on it.  _Should I be doing something different?_

For a few minutes, they just lay there on the floor together ( _sort of 'together'_ , Sylar mused). Sylar listened to Peter's soft breathing and kept his eyes turned upwards so Peter could scope him out as much as he wanted. Finally Peter made a discontented noise and rose. Sylar looked over at him and Peter shrugged, working his shoulders and frowning. "Floor's hard," Peter said tersely in way of explanation, getting to his feet. Whatever moment they'd had was apparently over, for no real reason Sylar could pinpoint.

_What am I doing wrong?_

* * *

Looking back at the memory,  _now_ , Sylar realized he should have offered Peter his pillow back. He should have apologized for misunderstanding and hitting him. He should have agreed it was fun. He should have actually looked at and engaged with Peter before or after the pillow fight instead of ignoring him and staring at his book, or the ceiling. It was not lost on Sylar either that Peter had tried to make an awkward pass at him (odd as it was to imagine Peter Petrelli being awkward at anything involving sex, but that was what it was) and Sylar had responded by slugging him in the head and then trying to smother him.  _Is it any wonder that Peter has had enough of me? Is it any wonder he got so heavy-handed with me and jumped me the other day? He's been making come-ons for weeks and I haven't been responding right._

_So he just … kind of climbed all over me there next to the piano last week. It's what I fucking wanted! I should have given his fucking pillow back, way back before, and maybe he would have stayed there with me. Maybe something else would have happened. He's pretty damn tolerant of the rough stuff, but there's a limit to that._


	16. More Issues Than The National Geographic

_Nine Days After_

It was more than a week after the incident when Sylar finally found Peter approachable, if not friendly. He was lounging next to the pool at the YMCA, of all places. He had a stack of National Geographic magazines next to him and had one propped up on his belly. He wasn't dressed in anything but a pair of swimming trunks that came down to mid-thigh. Seeing that much flesh on display gave Sylar an even sharper reaction than normal because he knew just how off-limits it was … and how close he'd gotten to being able to touch anything he wanted just a week before. He wondered if Peter was teasing him. He swam often, so probably not. Sylar wondered if maybe he deserved some teasing, though. Peter still bore a black eye, and his cheek had turned a weird yellow-green color. There wasn't much swelling though.

Sylar had had long hours to consider Peter's absence and try to unravel his motivations. Peter's current, complete disinterest in him belied the idea that he was trying to turn Sylar to his own ends. It was still possible that Peter was playing an even deeper game than Sylar expected, but the odds of that were miniscule. He had to admit that the odds were much better that he'd knocked out the first guy who had (past tense now, obviously) ever been attracted to him - the first and only person who might have genuinely liked him as he was, without powers, just as a human being. And Sylar had punched him in the face and ran away. Regret was consuming him from the inside out. Thinking back, he probably would still handle it similarly, or just as badly, if he could go back or get a re-do. It was just that foreign a concept to him and there was a high chance he would continue to screw it up.

Sylar walked over to Peter, who had not so much as glanced up at him, and squatted next to his chair, prepared to make his apology and beg forgiveness. "Peter, I-"  _Smack!_  Sylar fell back on his ass in surprise, because Peter's hand, lightning fast, had whipped out from holding his magazine and backhanded him across the face. It stung, but he hadn't been hit very hard; his nose wasn't even bleeding. Sylar, eyes wide, put a hand to his nose and blinked. Peter was still reading, having never looked at him, and Sylar felt a flash of anger at being dealt with so summarily. It was contemptuous, like he wasn't worth Peter's full attention, like Peter was sure Sylar would do nothing in retaliation. Sylar's lip curled, but he stayed still. Peter's eyes tracked slowly across the magazine.

_That's it? That's all he's gonna do?_ _Then does he need to hit me more for him to feel better? Would it shorten the time until we're talking again, if he takes_ _it out on me?_ The gears in Sylar's mind spun as he tried to think of what Peter needed and how he could meet those needs. He had to give Peter what Peter wanted. He didn't think that … hurting him … was something Peter wanted to do. It was finally getting through Sylar's skull that Peter did not cope that way.  _He copes … some other way._  Sylar blinked a few times.  _How the hell_ _ **does**_ _he cope with all the shit that's gone down in his life?_  The mystery of that was something for another day. He shoved it aside for later examination. _If I'm wrong, I can always let him beat me up later._  He breathed out a long sigh and wrinkled his nose a couple times. He shuffled backwards before rising, staying out of reach.

One thing was for sure, Peter was not trying to hook up with him again. "You know, I was thinking I needed to update my Facebook status so all my little friends would know how things are with us. What do you think would be appropriate here - 'in a relationship', 'single', or 'it's complicated'?" Peter gave no reaction, not that Sylar had expected one. Sylar tried leering at him, "Come on, Peter, don't you want to kiss and make-out? I hear make-up sex is the best." Peter turned the page, as unflappable as ever. Sylar frowned. If he kept it up, then yes, he might eventually get a reaction. He was sure it wouldn't be one he would enjoy.

Sylar grabbed the nearest lounge chair and sat at the end a few feet away and out of reach. He felt low, rejected and resentful, as he'd known he would. He watched the slow movement of the water for a while, before turning his head a little to watch his companion. Peter still hadn't looked at him. He felt the desire to shout or throw things and demand attention, but they'd been through this cycle often enough. Sylar was sad to say he was getting used to it and learning the steps of the cycle, childish though his reactions desired to be.

Sylar sighed and pushed down the desire. He just had to wait. That's all there was to do - wait Peter out. Peter was as lonely here as Sylar was, maybe more so. He might get mad and stomp off and refuse to talk, but ultimately he had always broken down and made himself available one way or another. Eventually. Sylar decided he'd do best to distract himself until Peter was feeling talkative. He reached out slowly so as not to startle, swiping one of the magazines. Peter gave no objection, not that Sylar had expected one.

_The silent treatment. Joy. I deserve it though, especially if he_ _ **wasn't**_ _trying to manipulate me._  A petulant, immature part of himself wanted to complain,  _'How am I to know that he wasn't trying to pull something? Everyone else_ _always has. It doesn't make any sense that he_ _ **wouldn't**_ _be trying to pull something over on me.'_  He sighed again and read his magazine, eyes skimming vacantly over some article about the tar sands of northern Canada, yet retaining nothing.

Peter eventually put his reading material aside and rose to dive in the water with easy, athletic grace. He began laps, cutting through the water cleanly, his form excellent. Sylar pined after him even more, the rejection aching in his chest with an almost tangible pain. He wished he could get in the water and play like they'd done before, or have the little races they'd done other times, or even just swim in the same pool without feeling like he was intruding. The aura of unwelcomeness was thick and every moment of silence, of Peter refusing to even look at him, enforced it. He knew it would dissipate eventually, but for now it was smothering him.

Sylar tore his eyes from Peter's form and put the magazine back on the stack. He didn't care about it anyway. On the other side of Peter's chair was his shoes, socks and what was probably a t-shirt. He'd brought nothing else. An idea occurred to Sylar and he rose from his chair to hurry off to the locker room, emerging with a towel. Soon enough, he had an opportunity to make a peace offering. It earned him a look at least, even if it was sullen. Peter snatched the towel from him and walked away stiffly, still radiating anger.

"Don't suppose you'd let me dry you off? No?" Sylar gave Peter's back a wan smile, but he didn't push it further than that. Peter dried off, put his shirt, socks and shoes back on, collected up his magazines and walked out without a backwards glance. Sylar was right there shadowing him, as they both knew he would be. Peter strolled down the blocks, in no particular hurry. Sylar's mind kept presenting him with clever or annoying conversation starters.  _Maybe I should just try talking to myself and see if he joins in? Nah. He'll think I'm even crazier than he already does. So why was he with me at all? How do I recover this? What can I do to fix it if he won't even talk to me?_

The weight of guilt and rejection rode heavily on Sylar's shoulders.

Peter detoured into a diner he'd eaten at in the past and Sylar dogged him inside. Peter put his magazines down on a table rather than the bar, which perked Sylar's interest. It created the opportunity to sit across from him and have the illusion of being  _with_  Peter, sharing a table, rather than just being another person at the bar. Energized, he scurried to get drinks for both of them and set out a napkin for Peter, though he put his own drink at the bar. Sylar stayed out of the kitchen itself, not wanting to press Peter, or piss him off, or catch a hot spatula across the face (not that he really expected the latter, but you never knew about that sort of thing).

Peter made himself a simple grilled cheese sandwich between thick pieces of Texas toast. Sylar stood at the bar, sipping his drink and acting disinterested as he waited for Peter to commit himself to sitting at the table. Once he did, Sylar walked over and joined him, keeping his eyes down and hoping Peter didn't rise and go elsewhere. He didn't. Sylar mentally cheered. The other man was busy cutting his sandwich in two diagonally, the rich, melted cheese oozing out between the triangles. Sylar didn't realize he was staring at it until Peter wrapped half in his napkin and extended it across the table to him with the barest glance at Sylar's face.

Sylar blinked several times, feeling a weight bounce in his gut as recent memories flashed through his mind. Peter: taking care of him after fights that Sylar had started; making him an omelet; putting his hands over Sylar's and showing him the notes of the song they were playing; asleep with his head on Sylar's lap after that camping trip; the feel of his lips as he let himself be kissed even after Sylar had implied that intimacy between them would be meaningless; and how Peter had patiently come back after Sylar had freaked out the week before. Peter, whom he'd slugged to the floor for no good reason, offering him half of his sandwich even though they weren't on speaking terms. Sylar felt so small. Peter did such a good job, in his kindest gestures, of making Sylar feel like dirt.

Sylar took it, of course, because he wouldn't want Peter to think his offer wasn't appreciated. His voice stumbling and catching, he got out, "Thank you, Peter. You didn't have to do that."

"You can make the next one," Peter growled, looking down at his plate intently and lifting the other half of his meal.

_He spoke! Words! He spoke to me!_  He cheered to himself again. That was faster than Sylar had expected. He'd figured at least another week of getting the cold shoulder. It was possible this was just an aberration and Peter might not speak for another few days, or more if Sylar snarked or smarted off in reply, or made some derisive comment – Sylar had done that before and, hard as the lesson was, he'd learned to watch his words for at least a little while, until Peter's temper cooled entirely. He put his half sandwich in his mouth to help keep his foot out of it and said nothing.

He ate quickly so he could take his turn in the kitchen preparing a sandwich identical to the one Peter had made – three slices of cheese and a little mayonnaise. It came out nicely golden brown and perfect looking. He carried it out, proud that he'd done something right, sliding the plate on top of Peter's now empty one with a small flourish. It earned him a half-smile, the sort Peter gave when he was mildly amused and the muscles in his face pulled only on the 'good' side of his lip. Sylar took his seat, expecting to merely watch his companion eat, but Peter again cut the sandwich in two and handed over the extra plate with the other half.

"Peter, I-" Sylar cut himself off from continuing, ' _I'm not really hungry._ ' Which was true, after a fashion. With the way his stomach was lurching one way and the other, adding a lot of food to it didn't seem like a good idea. But he didn't want to pass up the opportunity to share something with Peter and he absolutely didn't want to squelch Peter's generous gesture towards him.

So he took the plate and stared down at it. "Peter, I'm sorry." He glanced up in time to catch the tail-end of Peter's most baleful glare, which made Sylar shrink back a little until Peter turned his eyes to his food. They ate in silence after that.

_Too soon_ , Sylar thought to himself.  _Apology too soon. The backhand should_ _have told me that. Just wait. Give him time. I've got all the time in the world here. Patience._

Peter did at least pause after rising to see if Sylar was coming with. Of course Sylar was, but he appreciated that half-second of polite checking. Sylar didn't trail behind quite as much now, but he still lagged by a pace or two, letting Peter choose their path. He seemed to roam the city quite truly at random, just walking and looking up at the buildings like he was out for an afternoon stroll. He finally ended at his apartment building. He gave Sylar a shallow smirk or maybe it was a bitter smile, and a brief wave. He went inside without a word. It had been a good-bye of a sort though. Sylar shoved his hands into his pockets and walked off home.  _Tomorrow maybe. He'll probably talk to me tomorrow._

_Ten Days After_

The next day Peter was slow enough to emerge from his apartment that Sylar thought he'd missed him and went off on another canvas of the neighborhood to see if he could figure out where his companion had gotten off to. He didn't find him, but when he swung back by Peter's apartment he poked his head into the building across the street to see if Peter was at the piano. He wasn't, but he was in the weight room, pumping iron.

Sylar stood in the door for a few moments, watching Peter, who glanced at him in acknowledgment and then looked away. Sylar wasn't dressed for a workout, but he climbed on the stair machine anyway and let it put him through his paces. It was something to do while admiring how Peter worked up a sweat. He remembered how Peter had smelled after … what they'd done. The smell of sweat had been heavy in that and every now and then he caught a whiff of Peter now. The memory and the scent turned him on.

He tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere, reminding himself that that was off-limits for now and maybe forever. The latter possibility made him ache inside - the idea of being excluded and rejected forever and not because of anything his ability had driven him to do, but because he was fundamentally broken, damaged goods, bad news. What arousal he'd had wilted in the face of his self-examination.

When Peter was done, he put away his weights and glanced over at Sylar for a moment, who dismounted immediately from the stair machine, prepared to follow wherever necessary. Peter looked down and spoke to the floor, "I'm going to go up, take a shower and lie down for a while."

_Lie down in the middle of the day? Okay, whatever, Peter._  Sylar just nodded, happy that he'd been addressed and informed, rather than left to wait outside for hours like a dog hoping his master would return. He walked out with Peter, hailing him before he went upstairs, "Hey, do you want to play foosball tonight? Or maybe ping pong?"

Peter paused with his hand on the door, then finally nodded, glancing back. His face was unreadable, his tone emotionless. Coming from Peter, that was scary and Sylar felt uncertainty coil through his gut. "Sure," Peter said, going inside without giving anything away.

 


	17. Museum Trip

_Ten Days After_

Peter came out of his apartment the next day to see Sylar waiting for him, even though it was early enough that Peter would have usually been the first out. The night before they'd played foosball and ping pong both. The games were quiet and subdued on both men's part - Sylar was walking on eggshells; Peter didn't really want to be there. Which was still pretty much the case for each of them.

Sylar's hands were jammed into his pockets and his shoulders were drawn up. He looked like a walking apology. Peter frowned and looked elsewhere. Was he still angry? Well, duh. He didn't appreciate being hit by people he was intimate with and he was having trouble getting over that. He couldn't think of an apology Sylar could make for it, just like all the other things Sylar had done.  _How is it that Sylar keeps marking up his record with indelible ink? Christ, someone take the fucking karma Sharpie away from that man!_  Peter snorted, shook his head and then sighed.  _What am I going to do with you, Sylar? You want me to say it's all okay and it's just_ _ **not**_ _._

Unaware of Peter's exact thoughts, Sylar was still reading his unhappiness perfectly clearly. He stuttered out, "Hey, um, w-would you … would you like to do something different today? Would that be okay?"

The man studied Peter closely. This was clearly a lead-in and not a rhetorical question. Peter shrugged.  _Have to do something to pass the time._  "What do you have in mind?"

"I thought, um," Sylar paused to look up and down the street before continuing, "I thought maybe we'd go to a museum or … I don't know …"

 _God, sounds like you're asking me out on a date._ But Peter spoke easily like his companion wasn't stammering over himself. "Yeah, that sounds good. Is there one around here? I don't remember seeing one."

"No." Sylar pulled his hands out of his pockets and stood a little straighter. "I mean I haven't seen one either, but I thought we could look for one." He looked away. "Like … like the camping." Sylar glanced back up at him. "You liked the camping trip, right?"

"Oh yeah," Peter smiled, remembering how tired he'd been afterward and how he'd somehow managed to fall asleep on Sylar, on Sylar's couch. His expression softened and warmed. "That was great. So you mean we might be out for a while, overnight maybe?" He was suddenly looking forward to the outing despite himself, and his tone of voice conveyed that.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess so." Sylar was definitely standing taller now, since it looked like Peter was on board with the proposal.

Peter grinned, getting enthused about the idea. It was another peace offering, he knew, since Sylar didn't like going out much and Peter did. It was also something they could do together that didn't necessarily bring up the incident the week before. It would keep them moving and engaged and after the week Peter had had, he found himself looking forward to a lot of fresh air and new scenery. That Sylar didn't know where a museum was just made it all the more enticing. It would be a search! "Let me run up and get my bag. I'll be right back."

He returned with his messenger bag and looked up and down the street, eager to set off. "So, which way?"

Sylar looked delighted with Peter's interest and pointed off to his left. "This way, I guess."

"Sure." And off they went.

* * *

By evening, they still hadn't found a museum, but Peter had enjoyed the expedition greatly. They'd talked about buildings and Sylar had told him a few things about architecture; Peter had talked about landmarks and what had happened at different places. Peter stopped outside a store in a commercial district and boldly announced, "I found our museum."

"What?" Sylar asked, perplexed.

Peter went up to the glass doors and opened one. "Come on. This is it – the Museum of Modern American Life."

The other man followed him in, looking at the house wares with a curious eye. Peter picked up a matching set of corn-cob-shaped salt and pepper shakers. "What do these really say about our culture?" he asked with a grin. The day's adventure had raised his mood. He'd been able to ignore what Sylar had done and just be with him as he was. Peter was good at denial and living in the now. It frequently got him into problems, but just as often it allowed him to ignore them, like now. He waved the little ceramic corn cobs back and forth.

"Hm," Sylar said, tilting his head with a bemused expression, as though genuinely considering Peter's question. And he probably  _was_.

Peter put them down and turned to an entire section on the right wall, spreading his arms to refer to the area. "And what about this stuff? A whole section devoted to plates and dinnerware with a vine and grape motif?" He looked back at Sylar, who walked up next to him. "Does this say we're a society that worships wine and inebriation?"

Sylar gave a small shrug, loosening up a little and getting into it. "Or maybe there's a correlation in most people's minds between wealth and wine-drinking, so in order to bring the illusion or the appearance of power into their lives, they surround themselves with signs of affluence." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "I'm sure it has something to do with the idolization of an imagined European decadence as well."

"Exactly, Mr. Brains!" Peter effused, bumping Sylar with his shoulder intentionally. The other man looked down at him immediately with an expression of trepidation and alarm at Peter's appellation for him. Peter, though, ignored Sylar's face and grabbed his elbow, tugging him along further into the store. The nickname had just sort of slipped out and he preferred to pretend he hadn't said that. Instead he said, "Look at this stuff! Look at all these different kinds of glasses. Do people really need this many glasses, or are they just showing off, pretending to be sophisticated? How many of these glasses just get lost in the cabinet and never used?"

"Probably most of them," Sylar muttered, eyeing the bewildering array of sizes and shapes. Then he turned his eyes on Peter, who was getting wound up. Finding amusement in Peter  _Petrelli_ getting worked up over people pretending to be sophisticated, he said, "Your mother has quite a collection of different types of glasses."

"I know!" Peter burst out, gesturing excitedly. "And God forbid I might put my orange juice in a water tumbler, or whatever the hell they're called." Peter knew perfectly well what they were called, but that wasn't his point. "Did you know she has different cups for tea than for coffee?"

"Mm," Sylar said, trying to suppress his smile. Of course he knew. "She needs a full time staff just to wash the dishes."

"I  _know_. That's just stupid and unnecessary. It's conspicuous consumption! It's ridiculous. Come over here." He grabbed Sylar by the arm again and hauled him to another section. Sylar looked pleased as punch about the situation, warmed both by Peter's energy and by how casually he was touching him. Peter lifted an enormous red plate-like dish, two inches deep and almost as big as a platter. "Look at this! Does anyone  _really_  need a plate this big? Why are the sides sloped so much? All your food would go to the middle and get mixed up. I think it's this big just so it  _looks_  big, not because any sane person expects to eat that much."

"Maybe it's a really shallow bowl," Sylar offered, still smiling warmly like Peter was just the most adorable thing in the world.

Peter snorted, glancing up at Sylar's face and then doing a double-take at the man's expression. He felt his cheeks coloring and he looked down. Sylar was looking at him like he was being 'cute' and Peter was suddenly terribly self-conscious about his tirade.  _He doesn't really want to hear this. He's just playing along_. He put the dish back and chuckled at himself. "Sorry," he murmured.  _Getting all worked up about stupid stuff … Kind of nice to have someone listen to me though._

"Sorry?" Sylar asked. "What the hell are you sorry about?" He put a genial arm around Peter's shoulders and pulled him close – closer than genial.

 _Oh God, that feels good,_  was what ran through Peter's mind.

They both froze for a moment. "I think you're right," Sylar said softly and released him.

 _He thinks I'm right? He wasn't just humoring me?_  Instead of moving away, Peter slid his arm around Sylar's waist and stayed right where he was. After a semi-awkward pause, Sylar put his arm back around him. They stood together, both enjoying the moment.

Peter sighed and leaned his head on the other man, appreciating how, a second later, Sylar's arm around him tightened just a little.  _What am I going to do?_  It felt nice. He opened his mouth to suggest they go find somewhere to sleep, but given their position he decided that sounded way too much like a proposition and he wasn't ready for that. He was certain Sylar wasn't ready for it. Peter pulled away finally. "Let's go raid that restaurant on the corner for some munchies before finding somewhere to turn in, okay?"

"Sure," Sylar said, his voice a deep, contented rumble.

Peter looked up at the other man, at the way Sylar was checking him out even if Sylar looked away when he got caught looking.  _Oh yeah, we really need to talk._


	18. The Talk

The next day they went to the park, which was again Sylar's idea. He seemed to have a lot of ideas recently on what to do, Peter reflected, but they were all things Peter liked doing, so he went along happily. They spent an hour or so playing Frisbee, easily long enough to get bored at it, before retiring to sit on the lip of a fountain. Peter took a long drag out of his bottle of water that Sylar had kindly brought in a big picnic basket he'd scrounged up somewhere. The 'date-like' aspect of this was large in Peter's mind.

 _Time to start putting my cards on the table and see what happens._  "I like you, Sylar."

The other man blinked at him uncertainly for a while, but it was an odd statement to throw out there so Peter didn't mind the pause. He'd expected it. Finally Sylar replied, "I like you, too, Peter."

"Good." Peter gave him a small smile and went back to looking ahead at the empty park. "The other day you asked what kind of relationship we had. I dunno. I think 'it's complicated' is probably the most accurate right now. What kind of relationship do you want?"

Sylar blinked a lot now, and paled. He pulled his feet in under him and swallowed. He looked afraid. He said, "Wh- um, whatever you want, Peter."

Peter gave Sylar a long look.  _Not the answer I was looking for. Well, maybe it's not a fair question. 'Whatever I want' – what do I want? Maybe that's as good a starting point as any for talking about it._  "I'd like … for you to be nice to me. Don't  _hit_  me anymore. I want to be nice to you. I want to be a good guy …" He trailed off softly and looked at his water bottle, elbows on his knees, holding the bottle in both hands. He turned it this way and that, watching the water sloshing around.

"You  _are_  a good guy, Peter," Sylar said quietly with a raw quality to his voice. Peter looked at him and Sylar added guiltily, "I'm not."

' _I'm not the savior kind.' Yeah, I get that. But I've seen two futures now where you were good._  "You keep saying that. Sylar … you  _ **can**_  be."

The man hung his head. "Peter, I slugged you last week."

 _Yeah, you've done a lot of shit. Like I don't know that._  "Don't change the subject," Peter said with a little smile. Sylar glanced over at him and blew out air, rolling his eyes a little. Peter went on, "Do you  _want_  to be a good guy?"

Sylar grimaced now and raked his hand through his hair, standing up and pacing in agitation. "Peter, what I  _want_  has never had anything to do with it!"

Peter stood as well. "It matters to  _ **me**_ ," he said strongly.

Sylar turned and gave him a very confused look that wavered in and out of hurt and angry.

Peter wasn't sure why he was getting that expression, so he restated, "Whether or not you want to be a good person - if that's what you're trying to do – that matters to me. Do you understand?"

Sylar's expression cleared, but he frowned and grumbled, "Fine, it matters to you. Doesn't change what I've done."

 _Yeah, but it might change what you_ _ **do.**_  "I've done a lot of messed up stuff too, Sylar, and you still seem to think I'm an okay person."

Sylar didn't even bother to snort. "Peter, you've done  _nothing_." He looked away in contempt.

Peter moved closer, reaching out to touch Sylar's elbow. "How many people have you killed? Fifty? A hundred maybe? I killed  _ **SIX BILLION**_ , Sylar!" The killer jerked around at the sudden heat and intensity in Peter's voice. "Six.  _ **Billion**_. And I was lucky enough to be able to come back in time and stop it, but doing that meant I sacrificed someone I'd fallen in love with." He exhaled sharply. "Maybe I didn't kill all of them with my bare hands, or look into every one of their faces, but you're not the only one aware of how easily abilities can make things spiral out of control. I wasn't even under the effect of mind control or whatever. I was just  _ **stupid!**_ " Peter practically spit the last word.

Sylar regarded Peter for a few moments like he'd grown a second head, then quietly walked back over to the fountain and sat down. Peter blinked at the ground.  _Guess that was a little over the top. Rein it in, Peter._  He walked over to return to his own seat, speaking more calmly now. "If you tell me that you're going to try to be a good person, then I will be there for you, for as long as you need."

Sylar's head snapped around to stare at Peter, eyes wide.

_Don't know why he looks all surprised at that._

Sylar stumbled out, "Why would you do that?"

 _Because you're a human being, dammit! Because I don't want any of what you've done before to happen again. Because I want you to save Emma and be able to have a little boy and this time he won't get killed and …_  Peter sighed. "Because I like you."  _Love you, maybe, but that might freak you out if I go blurting something like that out._

"Okay," Sylar said weakly.

 _That's not really an 'okay, I want to be a good person', but I think this might work better if I act like it is._ Peter nodded decisively. "I'll help you. Tell me what you need, if you know, and I'll try to help. I've had your ability. I know it messes a person up."

"I don't have it  _now_ ," Sylar squawked, obviously catching Peter's assumption. He looked half-terrified by the direction the conversation had ended up going.

Peter made a soothing gesture. "I know. I know that. Listen, we've … I'm … I shouldn't be so pushy, especially with you. Let's just … do something else for a while." He gestured at the picnic basket. "What else do you have in there?"

Sylar gazed at him for several seconds more, slowly processing that the impromptu grilling or character assault or whatever that was Peter had been doing was over, or at least being put on hold for the moment. He breathed deeply and pulled the basket closer to him. He opened it and pulled out a handful of comic books. "I … I found these. Thought you might want to read them. I brought a book for me, in case we just wanted to … you know, read."

Peter's expression softened and he took them. "Hey, thanks. That's great. I'd love to."

"And I brought some food and a sheet, in case we wanted to … um …" He stared blankly at the basket, still very thrown by things.

Peter saved him with, "In case we wanted to sit on the grass like normal people and enjoy lunch?"

"Yes, exactly," Sylar said, lifting his head and perking up.

"That sounds awesome," Peter said. "Let's do it."

* * *

The sheet, as it turned out, was for a double bed. It seemed plenty big until you had two good-sized men sprawling out on it. Or it would have seemed that way, if Sylar would have laid down on it. He looked over the dimensions and said, "I think I'll just sit over here."

 _Sylar, we fucked already. Being all distant now is … you know, he did freak out and run off and we never even got any clothes off. Remember all that stuff I was telling myself about going slow?_  Very gently Peter hazarded, "Hey, can I talk you into something?"

"Yeah," Sylar looked at him unsuspecting.

"Could you lie down here, face away from me, and I'll do the same, and we'll put our backs together?"

Sylar looked from Peter to the middle of the sheet several times, face blank. "Touching?"

' _Touching?' No, Sylar, we'll be like four feet apart from each other and maybe we should build a fucking brick wall between us just in case …!_  "Yes." Peter smiled a little and dipped his head. "Please?"

"Of- Yes. Of course." Sylar swallowed and laid himself out, wearing a wondering expression.

Peter settled in behind him, wriggling a little to get his back flush with the other man's. "Thank you," he murmured. Sylar stayed very still for several minutes before finally pulling his book over to him and beginning to read.

* * *

Peter put down the last comic and sighed. It was nice to feel Sylar breathing behind him. It stirred other thoughts. "What can I do with you?" he asked quietly.

Sylar was quiet for a moment, before saying simply, "Anything."

"Anything at all?"  _You're either joking, unrealistic, or have no idea of your own limits. Or maybe what you mean is I can do anything and you don't promise to respond well to it?_

"Yes," Sylar said, voice tight, "anything at all."

Peter turned in place and slipped his arm around Sylar's waist, feeling the man tense all over. He rested his forehead against Sylar's back and sighed, spooning against him and holding the man to him. After a very long minute, Sylar rested his hand over Peter's and pressed it lightly against himself, giving a wordless approval to the position. Peter relaxed, holding him, and fell asleep.

* * *

Sylar was almost drunk on the contact. The feeling of having Peter draped around him was delicious. He could feel the warmth of Peter's breath against his back – a spot of heat, then it dissipated, then heat again. It was the intimate rhythm of another body against his and truthfully, he'd never had the pleasure. It was better than sex. Less concentrated, perhaps, but certainly no less incredible.

Peter had slept with him before, on the couch in his apartment, but they hadn't been this close or comfortable, and more importantly, he was pretty sure Peter hadn't cleaved to him intentionally. Sylar had perved on the other man, slipping up on him after he was already asleep and so tired that he didn't wake. Peter had leaned his head on his shoulder and then later on his lap, but in neither case had one of them really held the other like this. Sylar would have rather had their positions reversed. He had this hind-brain ticking feeling that Peter was on the verge of humping him, but since that clearly wasn't a danger given Peter's soft snoring, the position instead had a constant, low-level sense of sex with it.

' _Anything at all' – I'd expected him to do something a little more … difficult to handle. And probably less enjoyable._

Peter shifted slightly with a low moaning sound that suddenly sharpened to "Ow!" They both jumped. Peter yanked his hand back from around Sylar's waist.

Not able to see what was going on, Sylar twisted to face him. Peter was holding his injured cheek and blinking sleepily. Sylar told him, "I'm sorry for hitting you last week." He reached up and very lightly touched the bruised flesh. It didn't feel quite right. "It's been quite a while. This shouldn't be hurting very much."

"Mm, broke it," Peter muttered, carefully repositioning his head, pillowing it on one arm while the other slid around Sylar's waist to the small of his back. Peter tugged them together even more intimately than he had before, groins flush with one another.

Sylar's eyes flew wide and his breath quickened, but honestly Peter seemed to be going back to sleep. "Will you sleep with me tonight?" Sylar blurted out suddenly, feeling like an idiot for exposing himself like that the second the words left his lips.

"Huh?" Peter blinked up at him slowly and smiled, shutting his eyes again. "Sure. Love to."

 _Shit, shit, shit. I told him he could do anything to me. Then I asked him to fucking sleep with me! He's going to … oh god, can I hold it together? It's just sex. That's all. He'll fuck me and he'll go to sleep, right? That's it? I can handle that. I can do it. Afterward it will be just like this. Just … just like this._  Slowly Sylar slipped his arm around Peter's shoulders and then scooted his upper body in close like their lower bodies were. He sighed and relaxed, because there was no danger here. It felt almost like he was holding Peter to him in a continual, loving embrace, protecting him or comforting him maybe. _Just like this._


	19. Play the Player

The day passed pretty uneventfully. They goofed around in the park for much of the afternoon, playing around with each other and acting like kids. Peter climbed several trees and jumped down, doing it partly because it seemed to alarm Sylar. It was funny to see him concerned on Peter's behalf. They both climbed on the monkey bars and sat on the swings for a little bit, talking about their different experiences in school and growing up.

That evening they retired to Sylar's apartment and made pizza, then got sucked into a long game of Risk. For a while it looked like a forgone conclusion that Sylar would win, but then he began making so many mistakes that Peter wondered if he was trying to throw the game. The man seemed nervous and distracted. Peter's forces rallied; Sylar got his head back in the game finally and crushed him. Peter was left frowning at the board, rolling the dice in his hand and thinking about probabilities. Sylar insisted it was the only way to win the game and that until Peter figured that out, he was doomed to failure.  _But I don't want to play a game that I have to work at. That's not any fun. I like taking the gamble. I just don't like losing so damn much._

He sighed, his attention drawn away as Sylar pulled the board out from under Peter's gaze and folded it up. "You want to do anything else tonight?" Peter asked, with the intention of his question mostly being in the direction of another game. It was late though and he was tired. Sylar had asked for him to sleep with him. Peter wondered vaguely what that entailed, because it seemed pretty fast - for Sylar. For anyone else it seemed like a natural progression, but Sylar wasn't 'anyone else'.  _Maybe Sylar's trying to prove he can get off and not hurt me afterward? I'm pretty sure all these dates are him trying to make up with me. And it's working._

"We could … go to bed," Sylar offered, keeping his attention fixed on putting away the game pieces.

Peter smiled and rose, gathering up their glasses and plates, carrying them to the kitchen. "That sounds great," he replied. When he came back, Sylar was putting the game away in its place in the closet. Peter admired his backside.  _And … suddenly I don't feel all that tired anymore. Heh. Don't be stupid now, Peter. You'll get a fist to the face if you are. Just chill._

Sylar shut the closet and turned, realizing he'd been the object of somewhat horny scrutiny for nearly a minute. He smiled nervously.

Peter tore his eyes away. "So, um …" He turned and looked at the bed. It was a single - big enough for one person, but two full-grown men would have to be partly on top of each other to share it. He glanced back at Sylar.  _Maybe I missed a bed around here? Or did he mean he just wanted to fuck and then I should go back to my own place?_

The expression on Sylar's face told him that for all the lead-up, the man had not considered the dimensions of the bed any more than he had the sheet they'd used earlier.

"I could sleep on the couch," Peter offered, not sure at all what Sylar had in mind.  _Maybe he just wants me around as company? I'm okay with that._

"No," Sylar said quickly, a little more decisively than Peter expected. He moved next to Peter, slipping an arm around his waist and guiding him to the bed. Sylar turned and sat on the bed, positioning Peter in front of him. Peter smiled down at him and watched as Sylar's momentary suave, in-control demeanor crumbled. He rested his hands on Peter's hips, breathing faster. He kept his eyes down.

"Hey," Peter said softly, "what's up?" He raised his hand to Sylar's hair, gently carding it back out of his face.

Sylar swallowed and got control of himself again. He smiled up, a dazzling, confident expression, pretty firmly treading into 'arrogant' and 'smug' territory, but Peter wasn't convinced by that look. Sylar's hands rose to Peter's shirt, trying to unbutton it. Peter glanced down when Sylar seemed to be having trouble with it. His hands were trembling.  _Smug expression or not, he's in trouble. He's trying to deal with it. God, Sylar, please don't hurt me again. If we're going to have anything together, you've got to get control of that. Otherwise you'll break me._

Peter kept stroking the side of Sylar's face with one hand and brushing his hair with the other, letting Sylar work his slow, fumbling way down Peter's shirt. He finally succeeded and pushed it to the sides. Peter stepped back and pulled it off as Sylar did the same. Sylar continued immediately with his own pants, shoving them and underwear both off.

 _Whoa, all the way naked already! Dang. I thought we might fool around a little first, but okay, whatever._  Peter went on to his own pants and underwear, since that seemed to be the order of the day.

Sylar stole a single, furtive glance at Peter's equipment before climbing on the bed, hands and knees, head down. Peter stood next to his pile of clothes, looking at Sylar's presentation.  _This is wrong. This is very, very wrong. No foreplay, no nothing hardly, just get naked and fuck?_  Peter wasn't even erect.  _We haven't even kissed!_  Kissing was a pretty important prelude to sex for Peter and he'd never even thought about what sex would be like without it.  _I'm not even sure I_ _ **can**_ _._

At Peter's hesitation, Sylar gave a slight cough and looked over at the bed stand. "I have lotion there. It's just hand lotion, but that should work, shouldn't it?" His voice nearly broke at the end and he stopped talking.

 _There is no way I can walk out on this without seriously, seriously fucking things up - fucking_ _ **him**_ _up. He's_ _ **offering**_ _himself to me. Maybe he thinks this is payback for hitting me. 'Anything at all', all right._ Peter took a slow step over to the bed stand and picked up the lotion, moving back to the side of the bed where he'd need to climb on to be in position for doggy style. "Ultra hydrating lotion for sensitive skin," Peter read off the bottle with a small smile. He had an idea.

"Yeah," Peter went on when Sylar didn't answer, "this should work fine. Go on and lie down flat, on your stomach."

Sylar glanced back. "You … want me that way?"

Peter chuckled. "I want you a lot of ways. Now lie down and I'll get started."

Sylar complied and Peter climbed on, straddling the other man's thighs. He squirted a generous amount of lotion in his hand and leaned forward over Sylar's back, rubbing it between his palms to warm it. He could see the tension standing out clearly in the bunched muscles and short, almost panting breaths Sylar was taking. Peter turned his hands downward and put them over Sylar's shoulder blades, noticing the man twitched like a horse with a fly on its skin. He rubbed a slow circle, spiraling outward.

Sylar's breathing deepened and slowed a little. Sylar asked, "What are you doing?"

"You wanted me to use the lotion, right?" Peter asked, deliberately misconstruing Sylar's offer to give Peter his body for sex.

"Uh … yeah." Sylar sounded baffled.

Peter continued to smear the substance around, pausing to squirt out some more. "Dry skin's a bitch, man," Peter murmured. Sylar choked and said nothing. Peter grinned and added, "When I'm done, do you think you could do the same for me?"

Sylar struggled with himself for a moment and then got out, "I thought you were going to fuck me?"

"If you want."  _I'd need some foreplay for that though and to know you were into it, which is clearly not happening on either front_. "I like this too, though. I like touching you." Peter's hands worked down over Sylar's lumbar region and the small of his back. "You didn't answer my question though. Would you do this for me?"

There was a brief pause and Sylar relaxed profoundly under Peter's hands. "Yes," he said, voice raw and open.

Peter finished up and wiped the excess on his own thighs, then leaned forward, letting his hands come down on either side of Sylar's head. He felt the man tense all over, sucking in air, as Peter's genitals brushed Sylar's ass. "I'd like that," Peter said softly, nuzzling the side of Sylar's head, nosing at the shell of his ear. "We don't have to do anything serious here. Just touch me and let me touch you and I'll be happy." Peter leaned away, moving so Sylar could get up, which he did. Peter lay down immediately, with a great sigh. He stretched a little.

After a moment, Sylar picked up the lotion and started using it, never being quite bold enough to straddle Peter. Instead he crouched to the side and leaned awkwardly over him. Peter reached a hand down and cupped Sylar's knee, stroking it as the other man's hands ran across his back. When he got to the top of Peter's buttocks, he paused. "Go lower if you want," Peter prompted. Sylar's hands strayed down a couple more inches, but that was as brave as he was for now.

When he was done, Sylar climbed off the bed and replaced the lotion. Peter rolled onto his side and pulled down the covers, getting under them. He patted the mattress when Sylar looked at him uncertainly. "Come on," Peter invited. The uncertainty was chased away a moment later by Sylar's expression of false confidence and the other man climbed in bed to lie on his side, facing Peter. Peter smiled at him warmly, letting himself fall into Sylar's beautiful eyes.

For a moment, all they did was look into one another's eyes. Eventually Sylar's gaze dipped to Peter's lips, then back to his eyes. Then he did it again. Peter raised his chin a little and puckered his lips, which was enough of an invitation for Sylar. The other man leaned in, opening his mouth slightly and working his lips over Peter's. After a few short seconds, Peter groaned against him. The sound seemed to galvanize Sylar, who ran his hand behind Peter's head, cupping it and holding them together while he kissed harder, lips pressed to teeth. Sylar licked across Peter's mouth and Peter opened for him with another moan, more wanton this time.

Sylar's breathing, like Peter's, was picking up as their arousal built. Peter ran his hand up and down Sylar's arm, feeling the swell of his bicep and deltoid, where he gripped in a moment of passion, his blunt fingers digging into Sylar's skin. Peter's eyes were shut, so he didn't see the wary expression on Sylar's face as his eyes flew wide. Sylar growled in the back of his throat and pushed forward, thrusting his tongue into Peter's mouth. Peter gripped him hard again, drawing the man against him.

Encouraged, Sylar pressed Peter back with the force of his pursuit, engulfing Peter's mouth with his own, tasting him and drinking him in.  _Oh God_ , Peter thought,  _get on top of me, Sylar. Come on …_  He gripped him again a few times, stoking Sylar's ardor and slid his hand behind Sylar's shoulder, trying to urge him forward and onto him.  _Come on, baby, it's okay._

But Sylar had found a limit and stopped there, unwilling to push Peter flat and mount him. Frustrated, Peter kissed harder in return, letting his tongue tangle with the other man's and exploring the edges of his teeth. Peter hooked a leg over Sylar's thighs and wrapped his arm further around Sylar's back, drawing them together more tightly. Sylar whimpered. For some reason, that was the point when Peter's empathy started working. The whimper could have been many things - a sound of fear, a pained noise, or maybe a surrender - but Peter correctly and immediately identified it as a plea. He tightened his grip even more, sucking in Sylar's upper lip and chewing it lightly.

"Oh, Peter," Sylar breathed, and gave another whimper. This time with it came a clumsy thrust of Sylar's hips.  _Wow, he is_ _ **so**_ _lost in this,_  Peter thought. Peter was pretty lost in it too, getting swept up fast just like he'd been before, when he could feel how much Sylar wanted it. He switched to Sylar's lower lip, kneading it with his own and nipping at it teasingly. Peter started rocking their hips together slowly.  _Oh God, this is incredible. This is awesome. Oh please … Oh fuck …_  They were both hard and bare and he could feel that most sensitive of skin brushing tantalizingly one across the other.

So could Sylar. Fear ran through the other man like a sudden shock and he jerked back. Peter pulled back too, hands up, not sure if he needed to be warding off a blow.  _Oh no. No no. No, Sylar. It's okay. It's okay. Christ, I'm sorry. I fucked up. I did too much. Calm down._ He said none of that, but he might as well could have, because Sylar blinked, looked down at the mattress, licked his lips and seemed to relax. He gave a hopeful, oh-so-cautious smile at Peter.

Peter reached out and stroked Sylar's cheek softly, which led the other man to take in a deep breath, let it out, and then scoot back in enough to lean forward and offer a kiss. Peter met him, letting his hand slip beyond Sylar's cheek to toy briefly with his ear, then bury itself in his hair. Sylar whined into his mouth, sagging against him in relief. The emotional connection was still there. Peter started to wiggle just a little bit closer with his upper body only, but Sylar leaned away, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder to stop him.

Sylar regarded him for a long moment, then brought his hand to Peter's injured cheek. Peter winced slightly, but Sylar moved on quickly. With several 'checking' glances between Peter's eyes and where Sylar's fingers touched, he took his fingers to Peter's upper lip. Peter relaxed in place, enjoying the touch and feeling as Sylar explored him slowly, taking in each finger-width at a time, stroking and brushing from one side to the other before dropping to examine the lower lip as well. His fingers slowed when they came over the nerve-damaged part, Sylar's eyes doing another round of darting to meet Peter's, making sure he wasn't trespassing. Peter gave him a small smile to reassure. It felt weird, perpetually numb, but he was fine with allowing Sylar to check him out.

Sylar turned Peter's chin slightly and leaned in, giving him a tiny peck on that blemished part of his face. Peter chuckled and tugged his chin from Sylar's loose grip, giving the man a playful smooch full on the lips. Sylar responded, and they began another round of osculation, though this time more sedate and unhurried than their previous frantic, passionate mouthing. They kissed forever, until Peter's neck began to get sore from holding his head up. His lips were thoroughly over-stimulated, almost numb all the way across now, from going at it for what seemed like hours. Honestly, as much as he hated to admit it, he was getting a bit tired. He'd long since lost most of his erection and his mouth tasted more of Sylar than of himself (which was wonderful - absolutely fantastic even). It had been a long, active day.

He pulled back from their latest lip-lock and scooted down a little, snuggling in and tucking his head against Sylar's hairy chest. He figured that Sylar would get the hint and it seemed the man did. Sylar adjusted the sheets and blankets over them both and hugged Peter to him. Peter fell asleep in the man's arms.


	20. For Love of Monsters

They came for him. In the night, in his sleep, as they always did. The cowards wouldn't try it while he was awake. Their white lab coats and fussy shop clothes rustled in the dark, tools clacking and flashing, irregular and startling. He twitched with every noise. They came to hurt him; to violate him. They would rape him, sodomize him, breach his skull and penetrate his veins with tubes and shunts and penises. Fingers would probe within his orifices, under his skin, burrowing through his brain like jointed maggots. And he would squirm and jerk and writhe as he always did. He'd given up fighting, so long ago. All he did any more was twist like a worm skewered on a hook – the futile, agonal spasms of the dying. It took him so very long to die.

The torture was not merely physical. There was no ignoring it, for his mind was not his own either. He was driven on by urges and hungers, never satisfied, always itching for more. The craving devoured his ability to resist and there had never been anyone who tried to save him, no one to hold him back from falling into the abyss that yawned in front of him at every turn. He'd asked for this, in a way. He'd wanted to learn to fly, to soar, to rise above his circumstances. He hadn't realized it would instead be an endless freefall with so little ability to control his course.

To cope, he had become wooden inside. He tried to be as insensate as possible and during the day it was easy enough. During the day, there were distractions, an escape from his memories. He could hide behind snark and aggression, punishing anyone who got too close. They were always just leading him on anyway. Cotton and ice – that was how he'd described his waking mind. Muffled numbness was a refuge until someone got so close to him, warm against his skin, that he was forced to feel them.

Like he did now. There was someone with him and they weren't one of the monsters. Warm, comforting hands rested on him. Might he have a protector? That wasn't necessary – even just a witness would be a help. A friend. Someone to hold him while he whimpered, someone who would let him dig his fingers into their arms and anchor himself against the phantom pain. Someone who wouldn't shrink from him, abandon him, slam doors in his face and tell him he, himself, was one of the monsters he so hated and feared.

His nails bit in as he hung onto his lifeline. He could hear himself trying to cry because never in his nightmares had he ever had someone stay with him who wasn't a tormentor. It was so novel an idea that he nearly felt like he was waking, walking that fine line between slumber and vigil, when the dreams were the most vivid. It was funny, in a way, how his pathetic consciousness constructed this escapist fantasy of having Peter in his tiny bed.  _Like he would even fit._ No one 'fit' into Sylar's life. More likely he was still alone, trapped in this prison made just for him, and his damnably potent imagination had fabricated a 'friend'. He wished it was real. He tried to stay asleep where he could pretend it was real. He gripped harder, and sobbed.

"It's okay. It's okay," Peter murmured. "Sylar, it's okay."

 _Someone is here?_  But if pretend-Peter was here, then were the monsters here, too? "Don't let them take me!" he got out through hiccups and gasps, the effort of forming the words finally drawing him out of slumber.

"I won't. I won't. I've got you. You're safe." Peter's voice was soft and kind and everything he wanted to hear, even if the shock of realizing it was real drove every shred of sleep from his mind.

 _Oh shit_. Sylar blinked through teary lashes into Peter's face, suddenly realizing his muzzy, muddled thinking had reversed reality and nightmare … or something.  _Something like that._  Regardless of which was which, Peter really  _ **was**_  in his bed, holding him close (not that he had much choice – not just the limitations of bed space hemmed him in, as Sylar also had a death grip on him). Sylar let him go, quickly, sucking in air so fast he choked, barely managing to turn his face to the pillow before being racked by a spasm of coughing. Peter patted and then rubbed his back. As Sylar's fit subsided, he continued to hide his face out of embarrassment. He felt Peter press his cheek to Sylar's shoulder, wrapping his arm around him supportively. Sylar tilted his face a bit so that he could breathe and otherwise stayed where he was, facedown. It was like with the dream, when he'd tried to stay asleep to better harbor his fantasy, except this wasn't a fantasy. Peter was holding him. Shamed or not by his weakness, Sylar wanted the comfort.

After a few minutes passed, Peter said quietly, "Roll over. Let me spoon up behind you."

Sylar nodded and complied, grateful he didn't have to look at Peter. Or rather, have Peter look at him. He felt like a wuss for crying in front of the guy. Peter's nakedness was something Sylar became aware of the other man settled in. He tensed, and then forced himself to relax. Peter snuggled up, wrapped an arm around him and sighed. Warm breath stirred Sylar's hair on the nape of his neck and he made a soft, pleasured sound in his throat _. Is this even possible? What he's doing right now?_  He'd seen pictures of this - on TV, in magazines - one person comforting another after something bad had happened. He could remember Nathan doing it for Peter. No one had been there to do it for Nathan. Being the recipient of it felt very odd, but he liked it.

He wondered what all of this seemed like from Peter's point of view - particularly the man's insistence that they were trapped in a mental prison designed by Matt's telepathy. In the last week, he'd had a lot of opportunity to try to put himself in Peter's shoes and during that process, he'd stumbled across an important memory of Nathan's that made him start believing Peter's assertions about the nature of the world. In the memory, Nathan Petrelli had gone with Matt Parkman to confront Matt's father, and been tricked into thinking he was in a hell of his own making. Interestingly, Nathan's hell also had him alone, and hoping for Peter's presence, but horrified to find only his own disfigured face haunting him. It had taken another use of telepathy, this time from Matt rather than Maury, to break Nathan free of the illusion. It had seemed so real, just like here. "This … place that you think we're in," Sylar started.

"Yes?" Peter answered, shifting and reaching up to comb Sylar's hair out of his face.

"Do you really think we're going to get out of here?" He thought about his dream from just a few moments before, and his confusion about what was real. He thought about how he'd wanted to cling to the dream once he'd realized Peter was there with him. He wasn't sure he wanted out - not now. Not with Peter cleaving close to him and holding him tight.

"Yes." Peter seemed so sure of that.

Sylar clutched Peter's arm to his chest and to hell with looking like a wuss. If they 'got out', would he lose Peter? It was frightening in a way his nightmares had not been in a very long time. They were full of dread, regret and suffering. This - all the untrackable possibilities of the potential outside world - that was terrifying. "How do you know? That we'll get out?"

He could hear the smile in Peter's voice as the other man shifted his head again and replied, "I saw it in a dream." Peter petted Sylar's hair, stroking it calmly, tucking it out of Sylar's face and behind his ear.

Sylar looked at his hand on the bed in front of him, splaying the fingers slowly. The inevitable was a great burden, one he was far too familiar with. "I've seen a lot of things in dreams," Sylar said, haunted.

"Those don't have to come true," Peter said solemnly, wrapping his free arm back around Sylar's middle.

Sylar's thoughts skimmed over the last several years and the horrors visited upon him long before that. "They already have."

Peter was silent for several minutes, leaving Sylar to his dismally circular contemplations. Peter derailed them with his ever-direct manner, saying, "Tell me about them. Your dreams."

"Why? It's already happened." Sylar hunched a little, burrowing his head against his pillow and trying not to think about the subject of his nightmares.

"It's  _still_  happening."

Sylar was silent, considering that.  _I'm still living in my nightmares? What does that mean?_

As if Sylar had spoken, Peter explained. He leaned his head forward to bump it lightly against the back of Sylar's head. "In here. It's still happening. Get it out. Make it something normal, like all the rest of your past. Stop hiding it. It's ugly, but pretending it's not there isn't going to make it go away."

 _What, tell him what sort of damaged goods I am? What good would that do? He wouldn't want me anymore. He'd be disgusted with me._  "You … you don't want that. You don't want to be with someone … like me." He didn't want to explain his fears. They made him sound weak and scarred by the past. People liked the façade of invincibility. When they saw the humanity underneath, they turned away in disdain, lip curled in disgust. He'd seen it far too many times.

But Peter was not deterred. "I'm  _already_  with someone like you. Like, you know,  **you**. You gonna try to keep me in the dark?" Peter's voice was a mix of teasing and challenging. His arm squeezed briefly around Sylar's middle and his lips pressed to his shoulder.

"I don't think you know what you're asking."  _Or are you just looking for an excuse to leave me already?_

The teasing dropped from Peter's voice and he turned imploring, quietly and firmly demanding answers. "Then tell me. You don't think I know who you are? Then  _tell me_. Show me. You wanna be with me? Be. With. Me. Don't be off hiding yourself somewhere else, pretending to be someone that you aren't. I want the real you."

Sylar thought, quietly. He wanted to convince himself that Peter wanted him because he was Sylar - powerful, fearsome, dangerous, capable. But that didn't make any sense. Peter's attraction to him had bloomed slowly over weeks and months, a step at a time as he got to know the person behind the persona, as they'd shared adventures and arguments together, long talks and short fights, lingering touches and stolen glances. If Peter had been attracted to the uncaring, unfeeling face Sylar turned to the rest of the world, then if anything, the slow and steady process of getting to really know him should have quenched Peter's desire rather than inflame it. It still seemed impossible to believe, though.  _Why would anyone like me for who I really am, rather than what I can do for them?_  Sylar lifted his shoulders in a shrug and gave a slight shake of his head.

"Don't underestimate me, lunkhead. I don't give up easy." Peter hugged him tightly. "I won't ever give up on you," he murmured into Sylar's hair. So earnest, so naïve, so  _Peter_.

The simplest way was just to blurt out the worst and let Peter run for the hills. Or maybe stay, because Sylar knew a lot about Peter and … yeah, it was possible that no matter what Sylar's past, he wouldn't shake. Peter was kind of stupid that way. Suicidal. Willing to face any risk to try to save someone. Sylar frowned, gathered himself, and threw it out there, brutal and blunt. "My father killed my mother in front of me when I was four, maybe five. He sold me to his brother. Who raped me when I was eleven and twelve, and his wife beat me when I tried to complain about it. You still want to fuck me?"

His last line was delivered with all the venom of twenty years of unresolved hate, fear and grief over those successive and profound violations of trust. The betrayal by Chandra, Elle, Arthur, Noah, and Angela were just the same wound, cut open wider and wider until there was nothing left of Sylar's heart that wasn't shredded. That his last, most genuine effort at seeking help had culminated with Matt trapping him forever in a living prison? It fit the pattern so well that Sylar was shocked he hadn't noticed it before.

Another pattern, just as unbroken, was that Sylar's viciousness did not put Peter off. Peter was the irresistible force, in that respect, and he answered calmly, "I'm not in the mood for screwing around right now, but I wasn't before. You're not, either. I still love you."

The irresistible force met the unmovable object head on and the object shifted, unable to stand firm in his low opinion of himself when faced with those words: ' _I still love you_ '. Shock coursed through Sylar at the realization of what Peter had so casually said and a moment later, joy. Then confusion.  _Did he really just say what I think he said? He couldn't have …_ "Wh-" Sylar coughed. "What did you just say?"  _He couldn't have said that. He couldn't have_ _ **meant it**_ _!_

"I said I love you," Peter voiced quite clearly and unmistakably, like it was the most normal thing in the world, patently obvious to anyone who'd been paying attention. Peter hugged him more firmly and kissed his shoulder, giving him a tiny nip at the end of it. "I don't climb in bed and make out with people I don't love."

"Peter, you'd make out with anyone!" Sylar squawked, well aware from Nathan's memories of Peter's plethora of partners during his college years at least. His mind was flailing for a defense against this oddest and most endearing of assaults. He'd been busy wallowing in how unloveable he was, how everyone had turned against him, how he hated and feared the world, and then to have  _ **that**_  tossed at him? He felt like a drowning man who had made peace with his fate and then been rudely clobbered over the head with a lifebuoy.

"Uh-huh," Peter confirmed, kissing his shoulder again and nibbling more. "I've loved a lot of people, enough to know what it feels like. And I'm in love with you."

"Stop saying that!" Sylar was alarmed. This threw everything -  _his whole identity_  - on its head. He was trembling inside and for the first time in as far back as he could remember, the fear didn't make him want to lash out.

"'I love you'? Why should I stop?" Now Peter was teasing, walking a dangerous tightrope here, but it wouldn't be the first time Peter had recklessly pushed Sylar out of his comfort zone.

"Because it doesn't mean anything if you just fall in love with anyone you kiss!" Sylar was so terrified of what it meant. Peter was not Elle. Peter was genuine and true and honest. He was patient, forgiving and kind. He was determined, unflappable and enduring.  _This could be real_ , kept running over and over in the back of Sylar's head, and it was scaring the shit out of him.

"That's not the way it works," Peter said with a little crossness to his tone. "I fall in love with someone and  _then_  I kiss them."

Sylar opened his mouth to argue about that and found himself wordless for a moment. Rallying, he said, "If you love  **everyone** , then it's not special!"

As if to counter Sylar's rising agitation, Peter's voice quieted. "Love is  _always_  special."

Sylar sagged against the bed, not seeing how he could win an argument against this, pretty sure he didn't want to. He felt exposed, as exposed to someone else's love as he'd always felt to their hate. This was so much nicer, though, but he felt so undeserving. "You can't mean it," he said in a pathetic last attempt to fend off the unfamiliar.

Peter pushed himself up on one elbow, looming over him. His tone was aggressive now, confrontational. "Are you saying I'm not capable of loving you? I told you not to underestimate me. And while you're at it, stop underestimating  **yourself**. You're  _beautiful_. You're special. You're wonderful. You're sexy. You're thoughtful. You're kind. You are  _ **so much**_. So much that I want to be with." Peter reached in to touch Sylar's cheek, brushing it softly with the backs of his knuckles.

"You're saying I  _could_  be so much. I  _could_  be special," Sylar said dully, staring straight forward at the wall a few feet away. He'd heard this before, the conditional 'I'll love you if you can live up to my unrealistic expectations'.

"No!" Peter snapped at him, trying to break through the walls Sylar kept trying to erect around his heart. "You know what I said, and  _ **I meant it**_. Right now. Right here. Just as you are."

Sylar rolled over, careful not to dislodge Peter. Peter looked very serious, very sincere. For several long seconds, Sylar gave him the utmost of his attention. He knew how things worked. Usually, they were mechanical things – cause and effect with error bars and gradients of probability, complex systems laden with chaos but never random. He knew that human beings were, in essence, biological machines. He knew he  _should_  be able to figure them out, but they tended to be beyond his grasp. There was so much about them that he didn't know. Each individual had a lifetime of small and large experiences that he was ignorant of, and those events changed them and their likely reactions to such an extent that his intuitive aptitude was nearly useless. It was like being asked to predict the sequel of a book he hadn't read.

But Peter was no stranger to him. He'd seen under Peter's book jacket, browsed the table of contents and starred large in the whole story … as both Nathan and Sylar. There was no one else in existence who knew as much about Peter as intimately and thoroughly Sylar did. It certainly didn't hurt that they'd spent years now telling each other their stories (Peter did most of the telling, which was also helpful). Sylar reached up and took Peter's chin. The man did not flinch from him, nor from the intent scrutiny he was receiving. Sylar turned Peter's head one way, then the other, trying to look into the recesses of his soul.

_Can you love me? Do you love me - really? Am I good enough for you? Am I … enough?_


	21. Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

Peter waited, quiet and still, trying to be relaxed while Sylar decided whether he, Sylar, was worthy of love. Because to Peter, that was the question hanging in the air here. Peter had no doubt about his own emotions, and he was also confident that he'd been loved by others in the past. Back when his empathy had worked better, he'd been  **sure**  of it. But had Sylar ever been loved in his life, so far as the man could recall? Sadly, Peter suspected the answer was no.

He wasn't a big fan of how Sylar was turning Peter's head back and forth, as if staring into Peter's eyes would tell him what he wanted to know. It was an uncomfortable reminder of other days - not distant enough to dull the memory of the fear and pain, but Peter held his peace and allowed it. He understood that Sylar doubted him - doubted it was even possible that someone might love him, especially Peter. After so many long seconds that it felt like minutes had passed, Sylar's gaze dropped, his eyes lost focus and his grip slackened. Peter waited still, for Sylar was finally looking in the only place where he'd find the answer to his doubts.

Once he looked in the right spot, Sylar made up his mind quickly. His hand, still holding Peter's chin, now served to gently guide their faces together as he took Peter's mouth in a kiss that started heart-breakingly tender and quickly became wildly impassioned. As the kiss progressed, Sylar's arms slid around Peter and a growl sprang up in the back of his throat. Peter welcomed him in, feeling that emotional connection between them flare to life faster and easier than before. Sylar was giving himself a chance. He was believing in himself. He was believing that Peter loved him.  _Yeah, happy, huh? Happy with_ _ **yourself**_ _. Maybe the first time ever._  Peter was so glad of that. He answered the embrace energetically, letting his tongue stroke over Sylar's and plunge as deep as it could. Long practice the night before paid off in telling him exactly how to turn Sylar on.

When they parted, Peter whispered breathlessly against Sylar's lips, "You're so special. I want to be with you. I really do. You're worth it." He hugged Sylar tightly, feeling the joy bubbling up inside the other man. He was surprised, though, when Sylar turned his head and bit him – hard – on the shoulder. "Ow! Hey!" Peter leaned back to see his partner putting on a very convincing act of complete innocence. Peter scoffed at that, then rolled his eyes and pulled him close again with a soft "Come here." Sylar complied, but he was tense, expecting retaliation. Peter laid sweet, harmless little kisses up the side of the neck Sylar considerately (and hopefully) bared to him, nipping only lightly as he worked his way up to the ear … whereupon he plunged his tongue inside of it.

Sylar squawked in indignation at the wet willie and then burst out laughing. It was a wonderful sound to hear ringing through the cramped apartment – startlingly uninhibited and joyous. For a moment they wrestled playfully in the confined space, mattress squeaking in protest as they pushed and pulled on each other, tangling limbs until Sylar submitted with a pleased and somewhat theatrical groan. Half atop him, Peter paused to crow in victory, "You're not getting away from me this time!"

Sylar chuckled and hugged him exuberantly, pulling them close once more. Peter retraced his mouth's previous route. Sylar didn't draw away as Peter came to his ear, but this time Peter limited himself to gnawing at the earlobe (accompanied by some truly delicious squirming on Sylar's part) and then mouthing the shell of it, breathing hotly into his ear, "I love you." Sylar shivered in response.

"Jesus, Peter," Sylar whimpered after his full-body shudder had dissipated.

Peter climbed fully on top of him, straddling Sylar and trapping him underneath. Sylar froze up, uneasy with the arrangement. Acting on a hunch, Peter took the man's wrists and held them to the mattress on either side of Sylar's head. Peter could feel Sylar's arousal jump as he saw his expression shift, revealing how vulnerable, how fragile, and how easily broken he was letting himself be -  _letting_  himself be that way … for  _Peter_. Peter waited for a very long beat, saying nothing, doing nothing. Sylar's disclosure about being abused knocked around in Peter's head, along with how Sylar had positioned him when they were next to the piano. He knew he was being extended enormous trust here - and that was something that was definitely a two-way street at the moment.

Peter leaned in gradually, mouth sliding slowly and tantalizingly over Sylar's while he continued holding the man's hands down. Peter was oh-so-gratified to feel Sylar's body arch subtly beneath him, feeling a firm erection press against him. "Yeah," Peter whispered as they parted. "That's what I want." Peter rubbed the point of his nose against Sylar's cheek and nose, following it a moment later with tiny pecks. "I want you to want me."

Sylar snorted immediately, blurting out, "Not hard." To Peter's quizzical look, he elaborated, "It's not hard to want you right now. Or, well, anytime."

Peter chuckled softly, rewarding the appreciation with another kiss and then another after that. He took Sylar's hands - first one, then the other - and planted them on his rear end before coming back for more kisses. Sylar took the hint, sliding his hands up and down the generous curve of Peter's buttocks, feeling the muscle firm and taut under his grip due to Peter basically squatting over him. Peter leaned down, settling in chest to chest as they continued making out. He moaned into Sylar's mouth when the man began to knead his ass, the motion alternately stretching and compressing his crack, making him feel so open.  _Oh yeah. Oh yeah._  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he breathed.

Encouraged, Sylar rubbed him more - a little harder and a lot more extensively, hands roaming up to the small of his back and then down to the tops of his thighs. He went out to the sides of Peter's hips and in towards the middle. Peter groaned again at that last touch, a plaintive noise this time as he pressed his body against Sylar's. Sylar stilled for a moment, then repeated his last motion: fingers right at the edge of Peter's crack, gripping, pulling and manipulating. Peter nodded a little and groaned again, kissing more fiercely.

"Mmm," Sylar said, taking the direction well. He let his fingertips work their way inward, a half inch at a time, while Peter squirmed atop him, begging for more as he finally broke from Sylar's mouth to chew and suck at his neck. Able to speak now, Sylar purred, "You like this, huh?"

 _Oh, yeah, talking. Might be a good idea to do that._  Awash in sensations, both his own emotions and those of his partner, it was difficult for Peter to find words. Certainly he failed to find any with more than one syllable. "Yes. I like that. Fuck, please more."

"Mm, like this?" Sylar let the tip of a long, slender middle finger play over the sensitive, stretched flesh of Peter's anus. He sounded like he was starting to understand just how much control Peter was willing to give him here, and Sylar was reveling in that.

"Ahh! Yes, yes, yes!" Peter bit him, which provoked an answering whine and a stretch from Sylar, who repeated his touches at Peter's posterior. He pressed a bit harder against the opening, making Peter leave off the mouthing of Sylar's collarbone and arch at the pressure. "Ah! Fuck. Lotion."

"Hm?"

Peter struggled partly off of Sylar, flailing in an uncoordinated mess at the nightstand. Yes, the lotion was still there from last night. ( _Thank God!_ ) He managed to grab it first try ( _cool; got it!_ ) and scrambled back to his previous position. "Lotion," he repeated, shifting to squirt an outrageous amount into his hand, which was then sent behind himself to apply it copiously. He wiped the excess off on the sheets, missing Sylar's deep frown at that and too enthusiastic to pick up on the nuance of the momentary emotional dip.

Instead, he interpreted it as a sign he'd been too long away from the activities (all of a handful of seconds) and Peter remedied that by going straight to Sylar's mouth and kissing him passionately. It was a good distraction. Sylar groaned, letting Peter press his head into the bed, opening wide for the intrusion and running his hands up and down Peter's sides for the moment. Peter shuddered and tightened his knees against Sylar's hips in response.

Peter pulled back, panting, as Sylar's hands dipped back to Peter's ass, exploring the slick wetness Peter had added to the situation. The man's delicate fingers probed carefully, making Peter twitch and press against him once more. "Yes, please!"

"Fuck?" Sylar said in a bland, uninflected voice.

"Yes!"

"Hm, you weren't kidding," Sylar mused.

"Uh?"

Thoroughly amused now by Peter's limited vocabulary, Sylar grinned, stifled a laugh, and kissed Peter on the forehead, working his way down Peter's face to nip at his jaw and chin. "You are adorable." One fingertip had found the right spot and dipped within. Peter made a choked noise followed by a whine. Sylar murmured in mock-threat, "We'll see who's not getting away this time." His voice was a deep rumble that made Peter's stomach somersault. "I have you right where I want you."

"Uh-huh," Peter groaned cooperatively, shifting and wriggling as Sylar kept prodding within and pulling out, then repeating. It was a fantastic feeling - one sensation after another, a continuous series of small invasions. Sylar moved his other hand closer so he could alternate fingers - one hand and then the other - as Peter began a muted rutting against him. Peter felt Sylar tense and the fear flare up in him at that motion - a fear that hadn't triggered when Peter had been merely squirming erratically. Peter stopped, confused, having trouble dragging the thinking part of his brain out of the morass of lust he was in, knowing he needed to process that emotion and respond to it better.

But a second later, Sylar worked two fingertips at once within him and Peter's attempt to think coherently flopped. He arched, and anyway he felt Sylar's negative emotion fade fast, along with his own concerns about it.

"Right where I want you," Sylar murmured in such a deep voice that Peter shivered to hear it, gooseflesh prickling along the backs of his arms. " _Completely_  at my mercy."

Peter groaned as Sylar wiggled his fingers back and forth, two within him, pulling in opposite directions. Peter collapsed back onto him with a whimper, his mouth finding Sylar's bristly throat and chewing at it hard enough to mark him. At that, Sylar's fingers slipped in deeper and tugged him open. Peter flattened himself, spreading his knees to either side in instinctive prostration until his hips hurt.

"Yes. Fuck. Please!"

"Hmm," Sylar hummed teasingly, obviously enjoying having Peter at his complete disposal. His hands shifted slightly, his inserted fingers ringing Peter's anus. "So responsive," Sylar whispered to him.

Peter just couldn't think verbally, something that wasn't always limited to sex. He could, and he did, weigh out his next course of action before doing it, deciding it was now or never. He reached back for Sylar's dick, lifted himself up a little, and pushed the member's erect length behind him so it stood at attention along his crack. Sylar had sucked in air and tensed, but when Peter took his hand away and started rubbing backwards it seemed to defuse the stress.

Sylar blinked at Peter, their faces inches apart as Peter withdrew a little to speak with surprising coherence, saying, "I love you. I want you. I want you in me." This was important - Sylar's jolt when Peter had touched him had been deep and his emotions had gone haywire for a moment even if Sylar had done little physically. Sylar took a moment to feel his way around the concept, then gave his own non-verbal, but unequivocal, response. He reached up and sucked Peter's lower lip into his mouth, gnawing at it while Peter sighed and then groaned. A second after that, fingers began to work him open again, methodical and thorough, carefully probing inside of him.

"Peter?" The calm, collected and almost indifferent tone of voice caught Peter's attention instantly.

"Uh? Yeah?"

"This is what you want?" Sylar made a push with his hips, watching Peter attentively.

Peter tried to figure out why this question was being asked at this point in time. It was so fucking ridiculous that it left him momentarily befuddled, wondering if they were really in the same bed, or if he'd been a little less vocal, indicative and enthusiastic than he thought he'd been. But the hang-up had nothing to do with Peter and a moment later what flashed through his mind was Sylar presenting himself for anal, completely unprepped, treating it like it was … an assault that he had to endure in order to get the affection he craved. Peter's arousal nose-dived a bit as he realized part of Sylar's difficulty was in imagining that someone else actually wanted this sort of thing. He was not about to let Sylar inflict his issues on him, though.

Exhaling deeply, uncomfortable for the moment about how Sylar's hands were still moving and stimulating him, Peter said as clearly as he could, "Yes. I want you; I want this. Fuck me."

Sylar didn't speak an answer, but he shifted his hips, and Peter's rear end, lining him up. Peter rose up to get a better angle, letting his hands trail down Sylar's chest, fingertips tickling in the curly hair. He smiled, wishing he had more time to check that out, but Sylar was already nudging at him from behind. Peter was already as loose and open as he could get. He twitched and breathed out a sharp, "Oh!" as Sylar, with an expression of concentration and masterful self-control, worked the head of his cock inside. A moment later, the man glanced up at the ceiling above, biting his lower lip as he brought Peter down all the way.

Peter let loose a deep groan, his fingers clutching convulsively at Sylar's sides as his eyes slammed shut. "Oh, God! Yes. OH!" He rocked back and then forward, having not expected to get the whole length at once. They fit together fantastically, though. Sylar felt perfect inside of him. He didn't need to look down to know Sylar was watching him in trepidation and uncertainty. "Fuck! Good," Peter got out, pretty sure he needed to say something more articulate than that, but he had a dick up his ass. If he had to be loquacious at a time like this, then maybe this whole fucking-Sylar-thing was too complicated to manage.

Thankfully, his few but fervent words seemed like reinforcement enough for his partner, who moved his hands to Peter's hips, guiding him in tandem with the thrusts that Sylar was starting to make. Peter found his own hands on Sylar's forearms, stroking them gratefully, aware of how huge a hurdle Sylar had just tackled for him - with not so much as a peep of challenge or disagreement. Peter knew it was big. This was what he'd been punched over, after all - pushing Sylar to go all the way and here he was, doing it. It was a deep statement of how much Sylar would grow for him.

Peter's ass was making rude slapping, sucking noises around Sylar. Once Peter was meeting the rhythm, he took one of Sylar's hands and put it on his penis, looking down to see another moment of super-uncertainty, followed by a grin. Sylar was starting to get over the shocks faster and easier.

Soft fingers wrapped around Peter's erection, stroking irregularly at first as Sylar adjusted his grip a few times, then Peter began getting it earnest as Sylar pumped him fast, in time to the thrusts. Brief setbacks notwithstanding, he was still outrageously turned on. Peter leaned back, bracing himself on Sylar's flexing thighs so he could take the athletic hammering in a way that hit his prostate.

"Oh, yes. Fuck!" Peter growled once he got to where he wanted to be, accompanied a moment later by a wanton mewl as he moved his legs restlessly, letting himself be helpless in the grip of the surfeit of stimulation. He was practically writhing on top of Sylar's dick, his own ragingly hard in Sylar's grip. He was totally in the man's thrall, letting Sylar play him like an instrument and giving himself over to it fully. Peter knew he was putting on a show, leaned back, his whole body on lewd display. The way Sylar was watching him (eyes wide, mouth slightly open, a totally captivated expression on his features) was really something else. It tickled a lot of kinks for Peter, not that he really needed the help at the moment.

"Ng … come! Ya …" Peter arched backwards, the position forcing Sylar's cock to rub the exact right spot inside of him. His whole body tingled, burning up from within as his entire world narrowed down to the euphoria Sylar's was inflicting on him. It had been so long since Peter had actually had someone inside of him, their body surging beneath his own, handling him with intent and desire, to feel Sylar's emotions burning at such a fever pitch … it pushed Peter over the edge far faster than he'd expected. "Ah!" And a moment later: "Oh God …" He shifted forward when Sylar paused, literally missing a beat as he looked down at the mess Peter had dribbled all over his hand. He supposed, given where he was pointed, that Sylar was lucky he wasn't a spurter.

Sylar looked up at him with a small, knowing smile, twisting and pulling on Peter's dick with the same perfect stroke he'd been using before. Peter nearly seized up, trying to come forward with the gesture, but being held in place by Sylar's other hand at his hip. The thumb dug in sharply to show him where to stay. He was going nowhere. Peter sagged over him, twitching with each experimental prod Sylar gave him through slow rocks of his hips, and suffering through the overstimulation the man delivered to his cock. Peter could feel the barely restrained urges racing up and down Sylar's form. The man might be lying there looking smug and calm, but he was rock hard within Peter and almost trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

Getting his breath back, Peter said, "Go to town, man. I know you want to."

"You're done," Sylar said evenly, like that mattered in some way.

Peter's brows rose slowly. "Uh … so? It's not like there's a limited supply of my ass, Sylar. You're not going to use it up. Go for it."

Peter would have sworn that Sylar's eyes bugged a little at that comment before the other man grinned and released Peter's rapidly softening dick. Sylar grimaced at his hand briefly before wiping it off on the sheets with a grumbled, "We're washing later."

"Course." Peter came forward to brace his hands on either side, keeping his spine arched as Sylar's focus returned to the sex. He began to piston within Peter again, making Peter's lids flutter with the sensation of being overused. He was glad he was forward, but he still twitched and jerked when Sylar hit particularly deep. The other man's hands were on Peter's hips for now, holding him in place as he went harder and faster, having taken Peter at his word. His hands slipped around to the sides of Peter's buttocks, gripping and clenching so tight it hurt. Peter made a muffled grunt as he panted, taking the jogging thrusts with occasional moans. He'd rarely been fucked quite this hard, being pounded into time after time.

He watched through dazed eyes as Sylar's pale skin started to shine with a light sweat and then flushed pink. A moment later, Sylar hesitated, breaking his brutal pace, his eyes going back up to the ceiling and mouth dropping open as he gave an involuntary shudder. Peter could feel the man's member sunk entirely within him, Sylar's fingers clutching at him spasmodically as he came. A faint throbbing emanated from his cock. Sylar looked like he was having a moment of pure transcendence. Peter smiled gently, warmth suffusing him and pride filling him up that he could make anyone look like they were experiencing spiritual fucking ecstasy. It tickled Peter's ego all the way down to his toes.

Sylar jerked and gave a final shiver of aftershock, fingers tightening again for a moment as his eyes found Peter's. Peter leaned in to kiss him softly, feeling their still-heavy breaths mingling between them. Sylar stared directly into his eyes and made an unguarded sound like a whimper.  _Who's the one in charge now?_  Peter mentally gloried. His expression still one of wonderstruck awe, Sylar brought his hands to either side of Peter's head, running them into his hair ( _um, one of those hands used to be covered with my come … but … whatever)_  and pulling Peter's face in again for a deep, slow, and luxurious coupling of lips. Peter let himself drown in that kiss.

They wound down slowly, with Sylar trailing his fingers up and down Peter's sides, across his back and over his arms, leaving little trails of pleasure wherever he touched. Peter watched the play of emotions across Sylar's relaxed, blissful features. It looked like bone-deep contentment. Peter had that phenomenal feeling that came after a particularly hard fuck - muscles sore, nerves singing, blood rushing and totally buzzed on endorphins. Maybe Sylar had never been loved before - but he was now.


	22. Aftercare and Afterward

_Immediately following Let Me Hear Your Body Talk …_

Sylar watched as Peter just stared down at him, looking at his eyes, probably taking in his expression, so close that Sylar could scent him and feel Peter's breaths against his face.  _Such a strange, strange man - so much more complicated and simple than I'd imagined. How is it that I overlooked for so long what was_ _ **really**_ _special about people?_  Peter was crouched over him, supporting himself with one hand on the mattress and the other behind Sylar's neck, fingers idly playing with his hair. Sylar sighed with the contentment that came with having utterly spent yourself in energetic sex and with being with someone you knew didn't find you lacking. It was hard to imagine that he could lie here under such close scrutiny and be so relaxed, but something had broken inside of him in a good way, cracked like a shell, tumbled down like a unneeded wall. Maybe … if Peter liked him … maybe he was actually likeable.

As if to confirm that thought, Peter leaned in with a teasingly gentle brush of lips. Sylar met him, wanting more, but only smiled when Peter drew back to continue ogling him. Sylar's hands stroked slowly up and down Peter's glorious skin, warm from exertion and damp from sweat, feeling out every square inch that he could reach. The part of his mind that would have once urged him to desperately commit everything to memory was quiet, letting him savor the moment for exactly what it was.

"What made you change your mind?" Sylar asked, wondering if he dared hope this sort of time together could be permanent, or at least repeat. That seemed to be what Peter was angling for.

"About what?"

"Being with me," Sylar said, dropping his eyes to Peter's chest, where his fingers were exploring down the mostly bare sternum - such a different part than his own hairy one. He was taking quite a risk by asking, but it was something he had to know. He had decided Peter had no ulterior motive, but that still left the question of why. "You didn't want to, at first. You said no. I think you thought I was … going to use you." He looked off to the side, not at Peter at all, because Peter may well have been right, at that point in time, before they'd shared their first kiss. "And then after I hit you ..."  _Why did you come back?_

"I decided you were lying."

Sylar's eyes came up to Peter's face, studying it with that blank look he was so good at using when he didn't want to reveal his feelings.

Peter went on, his left hand shifting so his fingers could card through the hair over Sylar's right ear, "This wasn't just a way to spend your time. You weren't bored. And … like you said, yeah, you're lonely, but it's more than that. I think I mean something to you. And if that's true, then maybe this is worth enough for you to stop hurting me." Peter didn't go so far as to say what would happen if Sylar did  _not_  stop hurting him, but the conclusion was obvious and Sylar had figured it out days before while worrying that he'd ruined things irrevocably. He was so glad he hadn't. Peter was unbelievably forgiving - but Sylar had decided to take a leap of faith anyway.

He pulled Peter in for a kiss immediately, eyes squeezed shut and arms snaking around the man. When Sylar let go, he said haltingly, "You mean a lot. I'm … I mean I … I shouldn't have …" Sylar's face turned distressed. He didn't want to confess his sins, but he wanted the pardon anyway.  _Always with the shortcuts. Weak._

Peter smirked a little. "No, you shouldn't have."

Sylar's eyes snapped up to him, because that could mean so many things - shouldn't have taken abilities, shouldn't have killed Nathan, shouldn't have hit Peter, shouldn't have been who he was.  _Maybe I was wrong about how he feels about me. Maybe he still thinks I'm fucked up, no good, not worth it … I'm just the best he can do here, the only thing he's got and that's all. Nothing special about me._

Peter said, "But here I am, being with you, because I  _believe_  in you."

That hadn't been what Sylar had expected. Relief washed through him, wiping away the depression and melancholy, leaving behind hope and then a smile. "Peter, that's … really corny."

Peter leaned in and nuzzled at Sylar's face, lipping along his stubbly cheek. "Yeah," he agreed without apology. "We need to get cleaned up."

Sylar stretched, wriggling a little underneath Peter. It was a surprisingly pleasant place to be. Peter kept most of his weight up, but stayed close enough for contact. It had to be tiring for his arms, Sylar realized. "If you insist," he sighed happily, still having trouble believing his luck, but deciding not to question it.  _Just like getting my ability. Hang onto him. Do what I have to do to keep him, to satisfy him. Figure him out. Figure out this relationship thing. I_ _ **killed**_ _for my ability. He's not asking for that much. I can do this. This can work for me. I'll be special, for someone, and it will finally matter!_

* * *

 _Fuck this shit,_ Peter thought as he looked at Sylar's cramped bathtub with a showerhead set into the wall above it.  _Bed too small; shower too small. Sylar really needs to expand his horizons a bit here. I know how to fix this._ "Come on. We're going down to the YMCA."

"What?"

"The YMCA. Throw on some clothes." He tossed Sylar's pants at him, brooking no dissent. It was only a couple blocks away.

Sylar caught the garment. He looked lost, but began to comply slowly. It occurred to Peter that Sylar might think they were going to work out before showering, some sort of 'as long as we're already dirty' thing. So he explained, "They have huge showers. And soft soap."

Sylar's face took on an 'ah-hah!' expression and he started getting dressed faster.

Peter smiled to himself at that.  _Oh yeah. I have a_ _ **lot**_ _to teach him!_  "And after the shower, there's a hot tub." Peter pulled on his pants. "And a pool." He picked up his t-shirt and started shrugging into it. "And a water play park." He snagged his socks and shoved his feet into them, not paying attention whether he had them oriented right. He wouldn't be wearing them long anyway if he had his way. "With a slide." He waggled his eyebrows at Sylar. Sylar knew all of these things, but Peter thought they bore repeating, given that if they were going to be intimate with one another, a whole new area of play was being opened up.

Sylar was smiling softly. "You certainly seem to be in a good mood."

"Why wouldn't I be? I just got laid!" He took a seat on the couch while pulling on his shoes.  _And Sylar calls_ _ **me**_ _dense!_

Sylar chuckled and shrugged, coming over to sit at the other end of the couch while he put on his shirt.

"Laid by you!" Peter looked at Sylar's bashful expression and decided to rub it in. "And hey, you're really good in the sack." He reached over and nudged Sylar's shoulder, adoring how the man looked shocked and then colored profusely. "What, aren't you usually in a good mood after getting laid?" Fully dressed now, Peter leaned back against the corner of the couch, canting his body to face Sylar. It wasn't like abuse was the only sex Sylar had ever had, but they hadn't really discussed it in detail.

"When I'm not dodging bullets, I suppose." Sylar buttoned his shirt up, seemingly lost in memory.

"Dodging bu… Okay." Peter faltered for a moment, suddenly having a bit of realization about why Sylar didn't like or want to talk about his experiences. Then he rallied, trying to cheer Sylar up with, "Well, there's no one here to shoot at you, so you're safe!"

Sylar nodded soberly, finishing his shirt and crossing the room to get his shoes, not bothering with socks.

He didn't say anything, so Peter said, "Listen, you just scored and no one's going to take a shot at you. I volunteer to fuck you, or get fucked by you, as many times as necessary until getting shot at isn't what's on your mind after sex." He stood up, as they seemed ready to leave.

One brow went up on Sylar's otherwise straight face. Peter held the door open. It took Sylar several seconds to get himself moving towards the door - Peter's offer was hanging in the air like it was something Sylar simply couldn't believe. In retrospect, even Peter thought it was a weird thing to say, but he'd said it and he wasn't about to back down from it. "How many times do you think it will take?" Peter said challengingly as they walked out, not willing to drop it.

"Oh, at least a hundred," Sylar deadpanned immediately with a deep, husky tone, heading for the top of the stairs down.

"A hundred?" Peter was aghast. It was  _ **that**_  deeply embedded a trauma? And what did that tone of voice mean?

"Maybe five hundred," Sylar elaborated. "A year of once or twice a day … that would be a good start, assuming you were serious. Then we could reassess."

"Oh." Peter figured out the joke and laughed out loud. "Oh! Well … actually, we'd need to be  _absolutely sure_. I'd be willing to go up to a thousand, you know, because it's for a good cause."  _It's not like I haven't wanted to get in your pants for a while now._

Sylar snickered at him, joining in the banter. "We both know what a sucker you are for a good cause."

"Yeah," Peter quipped back. "I've been told I'm a pretty good sucker, too."

And that shut Sylar up for the rest of the walk.

* * *

_Later that day …_

Sylar stripped his bed quietly, alone, lost in thought. He brought the sheets close to his face, breathing in their combined musk. It was almost a shame to wash them, but like hell he was going to sleep on them again. Maybe  _with_  them, but not  _on_  them. He carried them down to the basement laundry, reveling in the scent one last time before reluctantly consigning them to the hot water and suds of the washer. If Peter were telling the truth - and he rarely lied - then he'd have plenty of other opportunities to indulge his fascination with that particular aroma.

He slouched in the plastic chair, watching his sheets and a couple changes of clothes go round and round. He was worn out from the day and it wasn't even evening yet. He smiled and mentally tallied his score - he'd fucked Peter in bed; he'd fucked him in the YMCA shower (mental note: hand lotion near the sinks makes a good lube); he'd fucked him on one of the lounge chairs by the pool (mental note: never try that again, chairs not designed for vigorous activity); and Peter had blown him in the kitchen (mental note: next time, turn off the stove before activities begin). He hadn't even had to reciprocate for the last one, not that he had 'reciprocated' for the others. Peter seemed perfectly happy with Sylar's role in things, though there at the end, Peter going to his knees was the empath's idea, even if it wasn't one Sylar had argued.

 _I wonder if Peter gave me a blow job because his ass was sore? 'Unlimited supply of ass' – Ha!_ He grinned at the idea that he might have worn poor Peter out. Of course, he was getting a bit overdone himself, which was why the fellatio had managed to stretch on long enough that the soup scorched to the bottom of the pan.  _I should ask him, rub it in, the little …_  He frowned at his own turn of thoughts.  _If I want him to keep doing this, then I have to play nice. Making fun of him - not a good idea. I liked it - all of it - what we did. For once in my life, I've got to keep myself from fucking this up._

They'd cuddled on the couch for over an hour before it seemed that even Peter's neediness was finally satiated from the close company they'd been keeping. He parted ways with a few nuzzles and kisses, promising to see him tomorrow. Not that Peter had much of anywhere else to be, but Sylar appreciated the vote of confidence - and that was what he wanted so badly, for someone to  **want**  to be with him. He sighed and rubbed at a pulled muscle in his calf (so lovely to have that feeling due to sex rather than chasing after someone, trying to kill them, or running away from someone trying to kill  **him** ), directing his thoughts onward to what he needed to do to make sure Peter came back to him  _every_  morning.


	23. Shooting the Elephant in the Room

_Ten weeks later …_

_Peter's POV_

In retrospect, Peter should have known that talking about this particular subject would end badly, though at least it was tears rather than blows. Sylar had wanted to know about Nathan's funeral. It was hardly an innocent question, but weeks spent together intimately had expanded their conversations and emboldened Sylar to start asking about things that actually mattered to him. Peter had told him. At first, it was a simple recounting of events and attendees, but eventually Peter's own floodgates had opened on a deluge of emotion he'd kept walled off for far too long.

He had to admit that Sylar had something of a right to know. It wasn't asked out of any twisted desire to gloat. It was a life he'd actually led, if only for a handful of weeks, but that was neither his idea nor his doing. He deserved to know how it had ended, as far as family and friends were concerned - people who were important to the person he had thought he was. Peter knew he had to come to terms with  _everything_  that had happened to Sylar, distant past or near present, just as much as Sylar did. But Nathan's death wasn't something Peter could deal with nearly as supportively as Sylar's childhood molestation.

Sylar was the one supporting him now, as Peter pressed his face to the man's neck, back heaving as Peter alternately tried to repress and release his emotions, wishing he knew what he needed to do for himself. He was confused. He felt lost, and alone, and Nathan was gone, and never coming back. When they got out of his world they were in, Nathan would  _still_  be gone. He clung harder to Sylar, which was perverse given Sylar's causative role in Nathan's absence. He'd still have Sylar, right, when they got out of here? The guy who killed Nathan; the guy who was holding him now, stroking his back, feeling sad and horny and conflicted right back.

 _Ha._  One dry chuckle escaped amid Peter's rough mouth-breathing, his nose too stuffed at the moment to breathe with. Sylar was aroused by holding him close like this, and if Peter read his emotions right - something that had become easier as time had passed and they'd spent so much of it pressed close to one another - Sylar was just as confused about that as he should be. Peter kissed his neck, because Peter was an idiot, because it was easier and more desirable to feel passion than grief, and because he wanted to be soothed even more actively, to be loved and cherished and made to feel not-alone in the world. He pressed his fingertips into Sylar's back, pulling them together more firmly than the loose embrace they'd been sharing.

He felt the thrilling surge go through his partner, reliable as always when sex was offered. Peter lifted his tear-streaked face and kissed Sylar's lips, open-mouthed, his tongue questing within and answered only a second or two later. Sylar's arms tightened around him and Peter felt himself melt and burn inside as grief welled up along with frustrated anger that he was French kissing Nathan's murderer. Lust tinged it all, blinding him to what he ought to be doing, whatever that was - he had no idea. He panted against Sylar's cheek, fingers fumbling down his front, not sure what he wanted to do and from Sylar's stunned expression, the other man was just as flustered by Peter's passionate turn.

He rubbed his knuckles over the growing bulge in Sylar's jeans, barely processing Sylar's small groan and mumbled, "Peter?" before Peter turned his fingers to rubbing himself. He put his forehead down on Sylar's shoulder, letting his self-stimulation create a moment of distraction from the surging emotions within his heart. He wanted to be thrown down and fucked hard. He wanted to be punched and hurt. He wanted something to be happening that would distract him from the yawning pit of grief he'd never finished processing.

The last few weeks had been so good, a couple months now of surprising, near-honeymoon-quality bliss with Sylar … and now here was the issue of Nathan rearing its ugly head. He'd thought he was over this. That was why he was with Sylar, right? He'd had his cry after the debacle at Mercy Heights; he'd had his suicidal rush after the funeral and equally unconsidered plunge into Sylar's mind. And now here he was, questioning how much of what he was feeling was really love and how much was just emotional desperation, looking for someone, anyone, to fill the hole that Nathan's death had torn in his life.

He pushed Sylar away roughly, new tears joining the old as he fled the guy's apartment.  _I'm fucking things up. I_ _ **am**_ _using him now. It's not fair. He's not a fucking sex toy. He has feelings._ **I** _have feelings. Have I been using him all this time? Is any of this even real?_

He didn't even make it to the stairs before Sylar caught up with him, spinning him by his shoulder and shoving him up against the wall, hard. Peter's mouth fell open and he panted in what was either lust or exertion - he wasn't sure which. His face as he looked up at Sylar left no question about it, though, and Sylar crushed his lips to Peter's, pressing him against the plaster wall, tongue probing inside of him as his hips ground against him. Peter shuddered. It was exactly what he wanted, and exactly what he refused to let himself have.

"No!" he cried out, twisting his mouth free and turning his head to the side. "No. No," he repeated.

Sylar froze, breathing hard against his cheek, hard against him lower down, too. Peter could feel the lust surging through his partner, darker emotions bringing out an aggressive, assertive side of Sylar the former killer hadn't let show until now.

"Leave me alone," Peter said, his voice shaking, even as his fingers curled claw-like into Sylar's shoulders. "Let me go," he demanded as he was the one hanging onto Sylar. Everything was a contradiction. He knew it, but he didn't know what to do about it.

His voice deep and gravelly, Sylar said, "That doesn't seem to be what you really want."

"I want to be left alone," Peter rasped, even though it was the last thing he wanted, especially with Sylar's voice shivering over his skin like the lightest caress of velvet. "Let me go," he whispered hoarsely.

Lips tight, face twitching with a suppressed snarl, Sylar lifted away from him stiffly. Peter slunk back to his apartment by himself, feeling as wretched and horrible as he had after Sylar had slugged him, except this time he knew it was his own fault.

* * *

_Sylar's POV_

Sylar carried his book into the recreation room the next day. It was just a prop, so that he'd look like he was doing something other than mooning after Peter. He threw himself on the couch, wishing Peter was looking to see his pique, but sort of glad he wasn't. He adjusted his sprawl, taking up the entire piece of furniture just in case Peter might want to come over here and share it with him. Not that Peter did, or would. Well … he might.

Sylar huffed and turned on his side, sullenly listening as Peter continued playing on the piano with a dejected air.  _I didn't do anything wrong. He started it. All I did was ask a question! He didn't_ _ **have**_ _to answer. He didn't have to get all freaked out about it. Issues. Fucking issues! Whole Petrelli family has them. Moody pieces of shit. He ought to be glad Nathan's dead!_ He huffed again, noisily blowing air out his nose so Peter was sure to hear him.  _And then he came onto me! Perverted little creep._

His angry thoughts did not obscure the fact that he liked Peter - he liked him a great deal, and very deeply. He watched Peter's back and the subtle movements of shoulder blades and spine as his head dipped occasionally and his elbows moved his forearms to different positions on the keys. He enjoyed watching Peter's body move. Even after all the time they'd spent together, every stretch and flex of muscle still caught his eye like an ability on display for the first time. The music was nice; even if he'd already noticed Peter was restarting the same tune he'd been playing when Sylar walked in. He did that a lot when he was upset. Sylar frowned, wondering if Peter even realized it, or if he was just on auto-pilot, letting the same song cycle through his head and his fingers while his subconscious wrestled with whatever demon needed slaying.

Sylar sighed, less noisily this time, and trotted out his exercise of trying to understand where Peter was coming from. He had no siblings that he knew of and his … Virginia's death didn't compare well. There were similarities, of course. She'd been a parent figure and so had Nathan, in a way. She'd betrayed him and Nathan had betrayed Peter ( _a lot_ , his mind unhelpfully provided). But despite everything, there had been a strong, healthy bond between the two men that had never, ever been present between Gabriel and Virginia. He'd always been wary of her, and with good reason. He'd known for sure that she wouldn't protect him, whereas Peter seemed to always expect loyalty out of his brother.

He mulled over Nathan's reaction when he thought Peter had died in the explosion over Kirby Plaza - the hopelessness, the despair, crawling into the bottom of a bottle and staying there. Despite having the memories, they didn't reliably stir the emotion. There were some things that a person simply couldn't relate to if they didn't share the basic foundation for the experience. What was lacking for him was the love, but knowing that didn't help. Sylar made a frustrated grunt and opened his book, staring sightlessly at the pages, and then raised his eyes to stare past them, over the top of the paperback.  _Peter wasn't abused. Well … he didn't have a Norman Rockwell youth, but he didn't have a stepfather like Martin. Or a mother like Virginia. And he's still … he's still been trying to be there for me._

He looked over at Peter again, face serious as he contemplated that. He  **knew**  that Peter cut him a lot of slack on a  **lot**  of things because of his past. A small frown formed as Sylar considered that to be fair, he probably needed to do the same thing. He let his eyes finally settle on the words on the page as he did the same thing Peter was doing and let his subconscious work on that thought.

When the endless repetition of the same old song finally drove him batty, Sylar rose and walked to the collection of sporting equipment they kept in the corner of the room. His eyes settled on a pair of catcher's gloves and a baseball, Nathan's memories reminding him of the many times when the older sibling had played catch with his kid brother in the back yard, using the time and the diverting physical activity to have meaningful conversations. He wondered if it would reek too much of Nathan and skeeve Peter out, or if it would be a warm and welcome reminder of better times? He took the risk.

* * *

_Peter's POV_

Peter stopped playing when Sylar set the baseball gloves on the top of the piano. The man put his now-empty left hand on Peter's right shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "If all you want is repetition, then come outside and play ball with me."

Peter looked up at him blankly, wondering if that was some kind of joke about Nathan, but Sylar deterred those thoughts by sidling closer at his doubt and running a hand through his hair fondly. Sylar had become almost ridiculously demonstrative of his affection, touching Peter constantly as if to prove and reprove to himself that it was allowed. Peter felt again that surging contradiction - soothe me/don't touch me; show me you love me/get away from me. He pulled his head away from Sylar's hand, earning him a tight-lipped frown and a step away as Sylar physically distanced himself. Peter looked down. He didn't want to see that. He didn't know what to do. He felt knotted up inside.

"Come on, Peter. I want to do something together with you." Sylar reached out and gave him a small nudge on the shoulder, obviously testing to see if Peter was putting new limits in place.

 _He deserves that much. I'm hurting him for no good reason. Just go play ball, Pete. Do something other than bang on the piano keys. Do it for him. Maybe it will help._  Peter scooted the bench back and stood, swiping the gloves off the top as he did.

The first few passes back and forth were quiet, the silence of the street letting them hear the echoes of the ball thunking into hand or glove. Finally, Peter got out in the open something they had to be both thinking: "You know I used to do this all the time with Nathan."

Sylar nodded and said nothing. He knew, obviously.

"Are you doing this just to draw me out?" Peter smiled, because to his surprise, it was working.

Sylar gave a small, answering smile. In a corny, bad accent, he said, "I haff wayz to make you tawk!"

Peter laughed a little and shook his head. "Okay," he said, agreeing to whatever Sylar's terms were. "What do you want to talk about?"

"You miss Nathan?"

 _Oh, Lord. You're … certainly going for the jugular there, aren't you? Yesterday wasn't bad enough of me? I had a complete fucking breakdown and I'm not far off from it now!_  Peter waited for a few more throws back and forth before sighing and answering, "Yeah, I do."

"It … it just occurred to me that … I can't really relate to that."

Peter caught the ball tossed to him and stood there for a long beat, thinking about that. The profound isolation of Sylar's life would mean that so many basic interactions were outside of Sylar's experience. What would it be like not to have any loved ones to lose? He nodded and threw the ball back, trying to think of what to say. 'I'm sorry', 'That sucks' and even 'Yeah' seemed out of place. Peter had a strange insight of how lucky he was to have had someone like Nathan that close to him at all. He looked up at Sylar, wondering if this new relationship might end up even closer, if he'd let it.

Winding up for the next throw, Sylar asked, "What should I do for you?"

That was a surprising question. Peter blinked at him and caught the ball that was thrown to him. He returned it, body operating automatically while his mind was busy.  _What_ _ **could**_ _Sylar do for me? What will I let him do for me? Is it right, to be with him?_  He knew he wanted to be. His chest ached at the idea of not. "What you're doing is good, I guess … thank you. I'm sorry I was … um … yesterday …"

Sylar shrugged. "Not a big deal."

Peter nodded silently. He wasn't sure how to apologize for being turned on by his lover anyway. "I just wanted to be with someone." _I just want to be with someone now_ , was left unsaid.

Sylar looked off to the side for a moment, fingering the ball before looking back and throwing it a little long, sublimated anger fueling his pitch. "But then you left."

Peter jogged back to catch it, then came back to his previous position. "I don't know what I want. I was … I was just … I don't know." He shook his head, looking down and turning the ball over and over in his hand.

Sylar shrugged. "Okay. Throw me the ball."

Peter nodded, glad he wasn't being pushed to explain. He didn't know if he could, but if anyone would understand how emotions could get twisted up, it would be Sylar. "Are you going to be okay?"

"About what?"

 _Me crying on you, being indecisive, everything?_  "Me coming onto you at the wrong moment."

Sylar smiled and chuckled, teasing with, "I'm not sure there is a wrong moment for you to come onto me, Peter."

Peter chuckled back. For a while they lobbed the ball in thoughtful silence, until Sylar said, "I don't really miss anything, back then. When there were people in the world. Or … anyone." He shrugged. "Not anyone who's still alive."

Peter nodded. He looked around at the empty city, thinking that maybe part of the reason why they were stuck here was because Sylar had no reason to leave. Peter contemplated his own motivations - this place was an excuse to hide from the world and all the obligations of it, an opportunity to stay away from his mother and the reality of what she'd done to Nathan … and it was a place to find love. He looked back at Sylar, who had been waiting with the ball for Peter's attention to return. He tossed it over now. Peter caught it neatly. "Yeah, you're not the only one who doesn't really want to leave here."

Now it was Sylar's turn to look around the place. "You still think this is all in my head?"

"Yeah," Peter said simply. He was sure of it.

"Hm," Sylar hummed agreeably. "Maybe so. It's real enough for me."

Peter smiled softly, quietly agreeing with the sentiment.

* * *

_Sylar's POV_

They played catch until their arms were sore and hands stinging, whereupon they ambled down the road to the YMCA. Sylar congratulated himself on how that had worked. Even if Peter remained somber and a little depressed, he was at least communicative now. It did not escape Sylar's thoughts that Peter was an empath and probably  **needed**  interaction to stay mentally healthy. He worried, a little:  _If this is, somehow, all in my head, am I hurting him by not letting him out? Assuming I had the power to let him out? Will he ever be truly happy with just me?_  And after a moment of reflection, Sylar wondered,  _Will I ever be truly happy if he has people other than me?_

He was surprised that he didn't think Peter would dump him as soon as he had other options. Peter didn't seem the type and Sylar knew that Peter's bond to him seemed just as strong as Sylar's was back. But as they walked, Sylar knocked around the hypothetical situation of how he'd handle things if the two of them teleported, time traveled, woke up or whatever and found themselves back in a populated world. It was an intriguing thought experiment, but one that was derailed by seeing Peter's nude form revealed as they stripped before entry to the hot tub.

Peter scrambled in first, making a happy, exaggerated groan of pleasure as he sank into the hot water. Sylar followed quickly, his feet bumping into Peter's, invisible under the swirling bubbles. Sylar tugged his feet back to his side, not sure what was appropriate after the mixed signals he'd been getting. A moment later, Peter was clarifying by stretching a little and seeking out his feet for a round of footsy. Sylar dropped a little lower in the water, extending his long legs and offering them up to Peter's pedal explorations. Toenails scraped along the underside of his calves and he made little pleased noises, his smile becoming a grin as he watched Peter's face brighten as well. Sylar had been worried (and angry) when Peter had pulled away from him earlier.

It wasn't long before Peter crossed the tub, staying low so just his head was above the churning water. He slid up Sylar's body, straddling him until he came to rest just forward of his knees. Sylar wondered if he should move; what he should do. His hands found Peter's thighs; Peter's hands found his hips. A moment later Peter's hands came rather boldly together in the middle, the fingers of one hand sinking into pubic hair and the other grasping him. Sylar sucked in air, his own fingers tightening on Peter's legs.

Peter jerked him steadily, starting immediately at full pace, staring forward at him so intently that it was creepy. It was like Peter was doing this because he thought he needed to, or otherwise with some sole intent to get Sylar off. There was no attention to his own pleasure, and in that Sylar suddenly recognized himself.  _You're damaged_ , he realized of Peter. Sylar, not the most empathetic person in the world, could still see it plain as day.  _Broken up inside, all jagged shards cutting yourself over and over, wishing someone would take the knife out of your hands._

Sylar cajoled his lover forward by raising his knees and tugging on him with his fingertips. He ran his hand from Peter's sternum down his belly, watching as his lover's lids fluttered and his face went slack before he even got to the prize at the end of the treasure trail.  _Oh yes, so keyed up_. Peter was completely hard and he gasped and briefly choked when Sylar's fingers clasped him. Peter scooted up closer with a sudden whimper, Sylar's pleasure was abruptly forgotten as Peter clung to him.  _Let me take it all out of your hands, Peter. Give up responsibility. Give up the guilt. That has to be what's cutting you up inside - being with me. And yet here you are._

"I'm going to bend you over the side of this hot tub and fuck you," Sylar whispered into Peter's ear, earning him a quiver and a hurried nod.

With one more parting yank, Sylar shifted Peter off and stood, stroking his cock idly while Peter arranged himself. He worked up as much saliva as he could. It was the only lube he had. He rubbed it over Peter's presented asshole, probing a finger within. Peter moaned wantonly, pushing back at him.

"You are  _really_  turned on," Sylar murmured.  _You've lost Nathan, and all that talk of not having anything to go back to? Yeah, that's it; that's what's going on here. You're desperate. Desperate and just as weak as I am, not wanting to lose what you've got. I'll show you what you've got!_

He pushed inside in several hard bucks, knowing it hurt from the strained tone Peter's voice took on. Peter squirmed restlessly, trapped by the sensation, so tight that for the moment, Sylar couldn't progress. Growling, he reached out and caught Peter's wrists, holding them down against the cold tile. He bent next to Peter's head, snarling, "I have a use for you, Petrelli, and I'm going to take you whether you like it or not. Give it up. You're not going anywhere until I get what I want." He bit Peter's shoulder, fingers tightening on his wrists, hips shoving forward as Peter whimpered and put his forehead on the tile. Sylar felt the man open a little around him, letting him move finally, and watched as Peter writhed under him slowly, shifting in his grip and pressing back into him.

Sylar struggled for a moment on getting enough traction to make the hard thrusts he wanted, quickly finding a way to brace himself against a step. Long legs were really useful at times. He proceeded to give Peter the skewering he was begging for, pounding into him hard and fast, feeling him so tight and hot around his shaft.

"Hurt me!" Peter bit out, turning his head.

 _What? That's new._ Sylar hardly missed a beat, though, transferring Peter's wrists to a single hand and burying his other in Peter's lovely hair. He jerked his head back, arching him as Peter shuddered, gasping and mewling roughly as his ass clenched around Sylar.  _Coming so soon, hm?_ He pushed Peter's head back forward, not quite hitting the floor, and released his wrists so he could move both hands to his hips, bracing himself to deliver a quick, brutal hammering. Peter's passionate cries intensified as Sylar forced him to stay at his peak, overstimulating him for long seconds until Sylar finished as well.

Panting, he froze in place, letting the aftershocks flow through him, making him twitch at odd moments. Peter, from what he could see of his face, with long, dark hair partially screening it, looked dazed. Sylar pulled out gingerly, having previously felt what he now saw. He grabbed one of the towels they'd intended to use in drying off later and cleaned himself, then dabbed a corner in the water and spread Peter to clean him as well.

"Sorry," Peter croaked about not having been adequately prepared.

Sylar rolled his eyes, not bothering to answer Peter's concern. He'd had people's lifeblood and brain matter on his hands. This sort of minor mess wasn't a big deal. He gave a second check over himself and his partner before tossing away the towel, deciding they were clean enough to sit in the hot tub. As he'd expected, Peter scuttled into his arms straight away, leaning against him and sighing with complete relaxation. Sylar put his arms around him and squeezed a few times, feeling how loose and comfortable Peter was against him. It confirmed all his expectations that Peter wanted, or needed, some manner of mindfuck to make him feel human.

"You matter to me," Sylar rumbled, and Peter immediately buried his face against Sylar's neck, just as he had the day before. "You're not alone," he added, feeling the hot prick of wetness at the corners of his eyes, breathing harder and confused that  _he_  was the one comforting  _Peter_ , who wrapped his arms around him and held him tight, nodding. "I'm with you," Sylar finished, resting his cheek against Peter's head.


	24. To Hear Those Words

Days passed, then weeks, and finally, months. So many things happened that drew them closer together. The argued over things and they made up. They staged contests with one another, pushing and shoving and jockeying for dominance. Sylar lost most of the physical exercises, but he sure had fun bending Peter over the weight-lifting equipment afterward. Peter laughingly called it the 'consolation prize', but he gave it up gladly. The tables were turned in when the subject matter was trivia, riddles and word games. Sylar started letting his guard down and telling about his life - what was really important - in the discussions that followed.

Peter taught Sylar new songs on the piano, sitting next to each other not too differently from how he'd sat next to Emma. Emma was someone he finally felt safe enough to discuss, telling what he knew of her life, what kind of person she was, and that she, too, had an ability. Sylar showed Peter how to do basic repairs on a mantel clock - something he'd never done with anyone. He liked having a student as much as Peter liked rekindling the memories of the larger world. In an empty movie theatre, staring at the depressingly blank screen, Sylar told the stories of the father figures in his life, what he'd wanted out of them, and how he hadn't gotten it. Peter listened and he didn't judge. Instead, he told about his own, just as twisted and conflicted, and they shared the difficulty in finding one's way when those who are meant to lead you instead set so many barriers in your path. They talked about mothers - the strangest and most infuriatingly mysterious of beasts. And finally, they talked about brothers, setting aside the past and reaching peace.

XXX

_Three years later (Five years from Peter's entry into Sylar's mind) …_

They lay together in the park, rolled up in the blanket they'd thought they'd lie on for their picnic. It had been too cold for that, though, so this was how they'd ended up. They made a ridiculous burrito, with only heads sticking out of the end, pillowed by their folded jackets. Peter was spooned behind Sylar, their feet uneven, but shoulders and heads roughly level. They were warm and surprisingly comfortable in the chilly air. It was improbable, silly moments like these when Sylar thought it made perfect sense for all of this to be some kind of mental trip.

"You've never thought any of this was real, did you?"

Peter was silent, snaking a hand around to rest on Sylar's stomach. "I've never thought that this place we're in is real."

Sylar smiled slyly, appreciating Peter's careful word choice more than he let on. "What will you do, if you finally wake up?"

Peter exhaled sharply and Sylar could imagine him pursing his lips, even though he couldn't see his face to be sure. "I'll try to save Emma."

 _Ever the hero._  He loved that about Peter, honestly. It made him dependable, reliable and trustworthy once Sylar had finally wrapped his mind around why and how that motivated his lover. Until then, it had just been erratic, but Sylar had come to understand it. There was something different, though, that he still needed to understand. He needed to know how Peter saw their future. "It's been years since you came here. What if all of that's over?"

Peter was quiet for a moment, withdrawing his hand to Sylar's side and rubbing up and down in short, uneasy strokes. Obviously, he didn't like the idea. "I guess I'd … try to get in touch with my old life. My mom. I figure my apartment would be gone again."

"So …" Sylar had to clear his throat to keep it from cracking, "So it would be like nothing had ever happened here?"

"No," Peter denied firmly, wrapping his arm around him completely and hugging him tight. Sylar felt relief flood through him. "Would you come live with me?" Peter asked so earnestly it hurt. "If we got out?"

"In your apartment?"

"I guess. My old one might be gone. And anyway, I'd get another if you were moving in with me." His hand stroked slowly up and down Sylar's chest and he rested his lips on his shoulder, kissing lightly, begging, in Peter's way.

 _Fuck, that's … moving in together? That's kind of like a proposal. I_ _ **did**_ _want to know how he felt about us …_  "We keep different apartments here. I thought you liked it that way," Sylar said, a little afraid at the change in commitment level Peter was suggesting. _Hypothetically, though. This is all hypothetical._

Peter replied, "That's because no one else is here. If we were outside, among everyone, then I'd want to have somewhere I could go … retreat to, with you, where it was just us, like here. I'd want to live  _with_  you.  _ **Like here**_." He gave Sylar another tight hug in emphasis. "All of here is living with you."

Insecurities soothed and ego pumped, Sylar teased, "Maybe I don't want to live in your apartment."

Peter snorted and shot back, "Fine. I'll live in yours. You got one?"

"I'll  _get_  one."

"Okay. Can I live there?" Peter sounded positively eager, which made butterflies tremble in Sylar's stomach.

Sylar laughed. "Yes, Peter, you can live there."

Peter snuggled in, happily rubbing his face on the nape of Sylar's neck. "Good." They lay quietly for a while as Sylar tried to decide if he'd just agreed to something, or if it was just 'hypothetical'. Peter interrupted his contemplation by asking, "Did you have anywhere in mind? City, neighborhood …?"

Sylar shrugged and exhaled, thinking it over. Now that they were making plans for 'getting out', it seemed almost real, like it was something that might truly happen.  _Where would I want to be, if I could be anywhere? I know New York best. Peter's mother is there and he wouldn't want to be too far away from her. It's not like getting anywhere else in the world would put me out of her reach. I don't want to be in some random apartment like anyone else. Nathan's apartment is right out. So's Isaac's loft - too many murders there._  "Who do you think is in the Deveaux penthouse these days?"

"Uh? … um, no one, I figure. I guess the Deveaux Foundation still owns it."

Sylar nodded, already working it out in his head. "That's where I'd like to be. It's big, spacious, plenty of room for my work. We wouldn't crowd each other. And I know you like rooftops. I like places with memories. It works."

"How do you know about the Deveaux place?"

Sylar laughed again. "He was one of the old Petrelli family friends, you know. Nathan went up there personally shilling for money for his campaign. A few days later, you were hired as Charles' personal nurse. Funny how that works." Nathan actually had no idea why Charles Deveaux had rushed out to hire Peter within days of agreeing to a very modest contribution to Nathan's campaign. But he was sure it wasn't a coincidence. Sylar added, "It's a special place. That's why I want to live there."

"Okay," Peter answered. "Then we'll go there." He said it as firmly as though they were settling on tomorrow's adventures.

Sylar turned a little to look back at Peter. "What would you do - continue heroing?"

Peter lifted his head so he could be seen. "I think I'd still be a paramedic, yeah. I liked it. I was helping people. What would you do?"

That was something Sylar had given considerable thought to over the previous months. Not that he'd been thinking they'd ever return to a populated world, but it was just one of those 'what if' scenarios he liked to amuse himself with when alone. He'd been having more and more of those in regards to the mysterious 'elsewhere' world Peter thought existed outside of here. "I think I'd buy and sell collectibles and antiquities, unique items and works of art. Special things." His voice caught briefly. He cleared his throat and added, "I'd keep them in the world for other people to see and enjoy. I could sell them to rich people and museums, who could put them on display. Or maybe lease them. I'd have to research however they go about doing that."

"Hey, that's a really good idea."

 _Why, thank you, Peter, for your ringing endorsement._ But despite his mental sarcasm, Sylar preened inside that Peter approved. It made it seem doable. Maybe this could work. He dipped his head, facing forward again to hide his blush. "I'd know if they were the real thing, from my powers. You'd help me, wouldn't you …?" He felt, rather than saw, Peter cock his head, probably trying to work out what sort of help Sylar was asking for. Biting back his pride, because this was really fucking important and he trusted Peter more than anyone or anything, he elaborated very quietly, "Help me so I was collecting things instead of powers?"

"Yes," Peter answered, voice deep and sure. "Always."

Sylar exhaled and reached around to find Peter's hand. "Always?" he asked with a tilt of his own head. There was a certain, definite implication to 'always' he wanted cleared up - was that a figure of speech, or did Peter actually mean it?

Peter gripped him back. "For as long as you'll have me."

 _He means it!_ Sylar shivered, shutting his eyes and bowing his head.  _I don't fucking deserve any of this._  He drew in and released a shaky breath. For so long he hadn't cared if anything else existed in the world because he knew, deep down, that he deserved to be here. He'd hoped in his heart of hearts that Peter was right and he'd been imprisoned here to keep the rest of the world safe. He'd destroyed or walked away from everything worthwhile he'd ever had in that world. It was fitting for him to be stuck here with nothingness for company. And then there was Peter - at first his own personal demon, punishing him with his hate; then with his disdain and lack of interest, totally unimpressed; and then it wasn't punishment at all. After finding love, how could he risk letting Peter go? How could he even start to believe that there was a way out, because what if it was possible, and Peter left him? He couldn't tolerate the risk, but here Peter was telling him, promising him, that he wouldn't leave, that he'd be with him forever, or as long as he was able. It was so much more than Sylar felt he deserved from anyone. He sniffed.

Peter laid his lips sweetly on the back of Sylar's neck, adding, "And I'll probably still chase you around after that, and be a huge pain in the ass. Just so you know."

* * *

Peter felt lonely and cold and uncomfortable when he woke, something he hadn't felt in quite a while. Even when he slept apart from Sylar, which was about as often as not, he felt a connection to the man, spiritual, mental, emotional - some kind of empathetic link that had grown over the years and comforted him even when they weren't together. Now it was so distant he had to strain to feel it - faint, but present, and the weakness of it was frightening.

He blinked awake to find himself in Matt's basement, slumped at the bottom of a freshly built brick wall. Stray bricks and other building materials, as well as the damp smell of uncured mortar, made hope flare inside him that time had not passed much. But where was Sylar? He followed that tenuous link to the brick wall, putting his ear against it only to be warned of the impending explosion. He jumped back just in time to avoid the flying debris.

Weeks later, Peter and Sylar stood together, staring off the terrace of the penthouse apartment. The last of their guests for the night had gone. The combined engagement and housewarming party had been simpler to pull off than Peter had expected. Peter had been surprised at how easy it was to convince Claire, Noah and Matt to attend, though not too surprised when he managed to interrupt them speculating about whether Peter was mind-controlled by Sylar. The amusing and yet disturbing consensus seemed to be that even if he was, they weren't going to do anything about it - Peter seemed happy and Sylar wasn't killing anyone - so that was that. Emma, Hesam and Peter's other friends from work were happy for them without reservation. Heidi had been a tough choice to invite, but she was Peter's sister-in-law and he wanted what was left of his family included. Sylar had done his best to stay away from her for the evening. Angela hadn't come at all, to the relief of everyone who knew her.

A glass of champagne was in one of Sylar's hands. His other was snaked around Peter's waist, his head tilted over so his cheek brushed the top of Peter's head. He had not been so determinedly clingy after they'd escaped the mental prison. For days, Sylar seemed to be waiting for Peter to bail on him. Peter would be lying if he claimed he hadn't feared the same in return. But then things had settled; they'd started planning for their future and moving to make it reality. The trust rebuilt fast, and gestures of affection and support had quickly resurfaced. "That went better than expected," Sylar said.

Peter snorted. "They knew before they came, you know. But you're right. It looks like it will work."

"You're still serious about …"

"Marrying you? Yes."

Sylar snuggled against him, scorching passion burning through the man, drowning him in a happiness Peter could feel loud and clear. He took Sylar's glass away from him and set it down on the ledge, then turned to look up into the man's dark, lustrous eyes, "It was all real. Every second. Just like this." Peter rose up on his toes, pulling Sylar in, guiding them together until he felt the first soft, ticklish brush of warm, sensitive skin against his lips. He breathed out, opening his mouth to accept his lover - his fiancé - who pressed into him with increasing intensity, surging desire, and boundless devotion.

The truth of how Sylar felt was always known to Peter, but it still surprised him to hear those words fall from his lips for the first time:

"Peter?" Sylar asked when they parted, looking down at him with the utmost of seriousness.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

_FIN_


End file.
